Thinner
by Antigone
Summary: You eat, I eat, you don’t, I don’t, you live, I live, you die..." Frank paused, ensuring that he had his stunned brother riveted, "I die too." COMPLETE
1. Part One

"Going to practice?"

Joe spun around, and the deluge of books that had threatened to spill from his locker toppled to his feet. 

"Geeze, Frank, since when did you start sneaking up behind me?"

His older brother grinned and bent to help him gather his locker's contents. "Keep your locker clean and this wouldn't happen. Anyway, I need the van. Callie wants to catch an early movie."

"Can't you take her car?"

"It's in the shop."

Joe quickly shoved the books on top of his jacket and sweatshirt collection and slammed the door before it could spill all over the hallway again. 

"Sure. I mean, take it. Can you swing by and pick me up on the way back?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Watch out today; I heard coach was going to give you a work out to remember." 

The younger Hardy groaned and started toward the gym. "Doesn't he always? I'll see you later."

"Sure," Frank called, disappearing into the crowded Bayport High Hallways. 

"Hey you!" Vanessa Bender called, materializing at his side. "I just came from gym. Coach Finely said he was going to work you all to death."

"That's what Frank said," Joe moaned. 

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "Be brave my big, strong man."

Joe made a face, and she laughed at him. "How about we go for pizza tonight? I'll treat."

"I can't. Frank has the van. How about tomorrow?"

"Sounds good. See you then."

"Bye," Vanessa flashed him her best grin and moved away. Joe smiled after her; she'd always made him feel good. Her big strong man. 

Thank you God, for letting me be that. Not much, but it's so good to hear from her… 

Joe turned, and headed in the direction of the gym.  

***

"I can't move," Biff Hooper moaned, sprawled on a bench in the boys' lockeroom. "I've never been so soar in my life."

"This is wrestling," Chet Morton sighed, sliding onto the edge of Biff's bench. "Isn't it supposed to be easier than football?"

"No pain, no gain gents!" Phil Cohen cried, grinning. But he looked as tired as the rest of them. 

Joe just smiled at his friends and continued dressing. Bayport High had been known for its excellent wrestling team ever since Tom Finley had taken over the head coaching position. And although his team mates were great on the mat, the work it took to get them there was often intense, arduous, and exhausting.   

"I'm hungry," Chet groaned. "Anyone up for Mr. Pizza?"

"Count me in!" Biff cried, leaping nimbly from the bench, forgetting his complains of a moment ago. Phil shook his head. 

"I've got studying to do."

"Okay. Joe?"

The younger Hardy shook his head. "Frank's picking me up."

"Bring him along."

"He won't come. He's got a physics test. Which means he's got a date with his room, computer, and books for the night."

Chet laughed. "That's Frank for you. All right. We'll see you tomorrow then."

"Sure," Joe said, waving his friends off as the lockerroom door opened and Mr. Finley approached him.  

"Hardy. Have a minute?"

Joe nodded and pulled his t-shirt down over his head. "Sure Coach. What's up?"

"Would you come hop on the scale for me?"

Joe shrugged and followed the man to his office, now proudly decorated with banners, ribbons, and trophies won by his team over the past few years.

"Right over here," he said, setting the weight to zero and gesturing for Joe to step up. He did, watching as the Coach set the lower weight to a hundred and moved the dial to the right. 

"190," he announced a moment later, frowning. 

"Is something wrong?" Joe asked, suddenly nervous. His weight sounded fine to him, but in wrestling the number had to be perfect.

"Yeah. You've gained. I mean, I don't doubt that it's muscle, but you're over the qualifications of your category. You're gonna have to diet if you want to stay on the team."

Joe made a face, and the coach patted him on the back. 

"I'm sorry. I wish I had something good to tell you, but I have to go by the rules. And they say you're overweight."

"Overweight?" the word seemed completely foreign to him. He'd never thought about his own body before; he really thought of anyone's. Weight didn't seem important. 

"It's not big deal. Step up your exercise; run a little more, and cut down on the sweets and junk. It'll come right off, don't worry."  

Joe nodded and stepped off the scale, but seemed unable to pull his eyes from the number that stared at him innocently. 

"Joe? You all right?"

"Fine," Joe managed a grin. "You're right, it's no big deal. I'll watch what I eat."

The Coach smiled back. "That's all. I'll weigh you again in a week or two."

Joe nodded, said goodbye, and headed out of the office. 

_It's no big deal_, he told himself, brushing it off as he walked out to the parking lot and spotted Frank waiting in the black van the boys shared. 

He'd remember thinking that later.


	2. The First Mistake

"I'm going to fail. I know I'm going to fail. It doesn't matter how much I study! No one could pass this test…"

Joe chuckled to himself as Frank ranted on about his impending physics test, one the younger Hardy was certain his brother would pass with flying colors. 

"Frank, honey, you need to calm down," Laura said gently, exchanging a humorous glance at her younger son, knowing full well that Frank would do fine. 

"Calm down! How could I calm down? An F in physics would drop my average…"

"…down to a ninety-five!" Joe broke in. "Oh my God, Frank Hardy? Not get a hundred? What will Yale and Harvard _think_?"

"Haha," Frank mumbled, glaring at his younger brother. "Thanks for the sympathy."

"Hey, don't give me that. I canceled a date with Mr. Pizza just to let you come and study. Which, by the way, we're due at after school tomorrow."

"Thanks for checking with me."

"Aw, you know you want to come."

Frank sighed and shook his head, mumbling about being dragged around Bayport under his breath. Joe just grinned at him.

"You'll do fine on your test," Fenton Hardy broke in, smiling at both his sons. "And then you can reward yourself by going out tomorrow."

"Sure," the elder Hardy mumbled, stabbing his pasta. Joe patted his arm playfully, grinning madly when Frank glared at him, knowing his brother wasn't really mad.

"Any new cases, dear?" Laura deftly changed the subject, instantly turning Frank and Joe's attention to their father.

"Nothing. The town seems pretty quiet, so I'm mostly doing paperwork for Chief Collig."

Joe made a face; he'd never been one for the business side of detective work. He liked action. 

_Better watch what you eat._

The thought startled him; it was as if another voice had spoken it. He stared down at the food on his plate, half-finished, and suddenly didn't want anymore. 

_It'll come right off._

"You're not having that much," his mother commented as Joe picked at the chicken on his plate. 

"Coach said I had to lose some weight."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "What for? You look fine."

Joe sighed. "Yeah, but I put some extra on and I'm too big for my category now. So it's diet time."

"Well, that's all right," Mrs. Hardy said, smiling encouragingly. "There's nothing wrong with losing a few pounds."

Joe made a face and Frank laughed. 

"Just take it easy, okay bro? Don't sweat it too much."

"I'm not. It's no big deal." Joe shrugged and put his fork on the table. "Just a couple pounds."

"I read an article the other day about your team," Fenton Hardy said. "Coach Finely has gained state-wide attention. He's really whipped you all into shape, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Joe grinned, rubbing his sore arms. "You wouldn't believe how much he works us."

"I've heard stories," Frank said. "Chet, Phil, and Biff practically limped out of the lockeroom."

"He doesn't _overwork _you, does he?" Laura frowned. 

"No way. I mean, we're the state champions now. Up from the second worst team in Michigan. We have to work hard if we want to keep that title."

"All the same," Laura said slowly, "I don't think he should go around telling perfectly healthy boys to diet."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Mom, it's _wrestling_. The numbers are everything. Besides, Coach said it's probably muscle I gained, from the workouts he's been giving us. And he said if I keep an eye on junk and step up the exercise a little it'll come right off." 

"No, I'm sure it will," Laura said, smiling again. "Just don't get too thin on us, huh?"

"Don't worry," Joe grinned, "I won't."

***

Joe stood before his mirror after dinner, the doors to his room shut, and slowly removed his shirt, taking in the thickness of his chest, the tightness of his stomach and shoulders.

_Overweight._

_It's no big deal,_ he told himself, turning to the side, surprised by the stockiness of his own body. It was as if he were seeing it for the first time, as if he'd just awoken from a state of ignorance.

_No big deal._

_Then how'd I let myself slip? _He thought, thinking of the morning run he did everyday with his brother, the workouts in both gym and practice for sports teams. He'd always been in shape; he'd taken it for granted. That's who he was; Joe Hardy, the brawn. Just as Frank was the brain.

Who am I now? 

Joe heard his stomach growl and realized he still felt hungry, remembering the little he'd eaten for dinner. Sighing, he pulled his shirt back over his head and went to do his homework, ignoring its protests.

_It's just for a couple of weeks. It's just for a couple pounds. _

They told him later it was his first mistake.


	3. Her Big Strong Man

A/N: Thanks to all reviewers. As many of you have expressed, I too have depression, and have been intensely struggling after recovering from my eating disorder. I urge anyone who is locked in the battle to seek help. I am ALWAYS here to talk to! Just send me an e-mail: Musica50@aol.com. The reason I'm writing this story is to both educate others and help come to terms with my own issues. Also, those of you whose friends have eating disorders; get them help. Feel free to e-mail me with questions; I'm more than happy to give advice. We all need to work toward a greater understanding of these issues and the reasons behind them. 

Thank you,

Antigone 

"…so I'm too big for my category now," Joe told a frowning Vanessa when she'd asked him why he'd only had a sandwich for lunch. "So I have to watch what I eat for awhile." 

His girlfriend shook her head. "You men and your sports. If the track coach told me to lose weight I'd spit in his face and quit."

Joe laughed, knowing full well that it was true. 

"Well, I want to stay on the team. Besides, losing five or ten pounds won't hurt. It'll give me an edge over the next crooks we chase."

His girlfriend laughed. "Criminals do tend to eat too much, huh? Does your Dad have any cases for you?"

"Not right now. But I'm not worried. I mean, trouble just seems to _find _us."

"Don't I know it," Vanessa stopped at her locker as the bell signaling the end of lunch sounded. "They oughta have warnings on each of you Hardy's. 'Warning: dating a Hardy will lead to early graying of hair. Long term benefits: extremely high tolerance for terror, concern, and all around anxiety."

"Haha," Joe rolled his eyes. "Very funny."

"Aw, you know I love you," she grinned, playfully brushing his hair off his forehead. He returned the favor, then stopped and pretended to frown. 

"What's this? Gray? No…_white!_ What do you know, Van, you'll be bald by your twentieth birthday…"

"Haha," Vanessa mimicked her boyfriend's sarcastic chuckle. "Get a move on, Hardy. You'll be late."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you later, right? Remember, we have a date."

"Do I ever forget?" she smiled. "Take care my big, strong man."

Joe, who had begun to turn and walk off, suddenly froze and spun slowly around. 

"Big?" he snapped, "what the hell does that mean?"

Vanessa's eyes widened. "Nothing. I mean…it's a complement. You know, strong."

Joe sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered, turning to go. Vanessa caught his arm.

"Hey, Joe, are you all right? I really didn't mean anything."

"Yeah. I mean, I'm sorry, Van."

She frowned. "This thing the coach said is really getting to you, isn't it?"

"No. I'm all right, really."

"It's just a few pounds, Joe. Don't worry yourself to death about it."

"I _know_," he sighed, suddenly tired. The words just didn't register. 

Vanessa patted her boyfriend's slouched shoulder. "Just relax, baby. We'll have fun after practice. Mr. Pizza, remember?"

"I remember," he mumbled. 

"Well, take care, and I'll see you there."

Joe drew a deep breath and kissed her on the cheek. "Okay."

_"If only I'd known," _she'd say later. _"I should have seen it. I should have known better."_

She watched as he walked away.


	4. Mr Pizza

"What do you all want?" Tony Prito asked the group. The teens liked Mr. Pizza for more than one reason; they got to spend time with their busy Italian friend, as well as enjoy the cooking—for a discount. 

                Vanessa looked around. "Two large pizzas?"

                "Sure," Chet said eagerly. Joe shook his head.

                "I'd better get a salad. Without dressing."

                Tony raised an eyebrow. "Want a roll with that?"

                Joe shrugged. Tony made a note and walked toward the kitchen as the group dissolved into chatter. 

                Callie smiled at Joe. "You're doing really well. Do you feel good?"

                The younger Hardy made a face. "I want to go buy out McDonald's."

                She laughed. "We'll do just that, once you've lost the weight."

                "Coach Finely's a real bastard," Phil jumped in. "You wouldn't believe how hard he works us."

                "He's a good guy," Chet insisted. "Just a little intense, that's all."

                "Let's not talk about it," Joe mumbled, glancing away toward the storefront outside.

                "Frank, what colleges are you thinking about?" Vanessa quickly changed the subject, her eyes worriedly on her moody boyfriend.  

                "Duke, Columbia, NYU, Boston University, Syracuse, University of Pennsylvania and University of Virginia."

                "All out of state, huh?"

                "He wants to get as far away from me as possible," Joe kidded a little too seriously. Frank tried to meet his brother's eyes, but the younger Hardy looked hastily away. There was an awkward pause, but everyone thought the same thing: Joe just wasn't being himself.

                "Food's here," Chet said, happily breaking the silence. 

                "That was fast, Prito," Phil said with a grin. 

                "Yeah, well, the kitchen works faster when the owner's son tells it to," Tony said with a grin, setting Joe's salad down. 

                "Nothing like a good bowl of lettuce," Joe moaned, eyeing the pizza. 

                "Poor baby," Vanessa grinned, patting his hand. 

                "Couldn't you just have one slice?" Frank asked carefully. Joe raised his eyebrows.

                "It's a _diet_ Frank."

                "_One_ slice is a diet."

                Joe shook his head and stabbed hungrily at the vegetables before him, refusing to look his brother in the eye. 

                Something nervously nagged at Frank: a feeling of apprehension, of something looming. The college comment still rung in his ears. 

_                He could have just been joking, and his mood made it seem too serious. That had to be it. He helped me research schools, he would have said something if the distance bothered him. _

_                Wouldn't he?_

                Watching his brother eat without so much as looking around the table, Frank began to wonder just how much Joe kept from him.  

                And felt a flicker of fear begin.  


	5. Lying

"Aren't you hungry?" Frank asked as Joe headed upstairs. 

                "A little," Joe lied. His stomach was screaming at him. He ignored it.

                _Just a few pounds. Just a few weeks.  _

                "You should have something else then. An apple or something."

                "Nah. I'm okay."

                Frank followed his brother down the hall toward their bedrooms, knowing he had to ask and half-dreading the answer. 

                _If he says he wants me to stay, will I? Would I give up a shot at an Ivy just for him?_

_                Probably._

_                But I'd resent it…_

                "Phil's right about Coach Finley," Joe said suddenly.

                "What do you mean? That he's a jerk?"

                "I believe the correct term is 'bastard'." 

                Frank grinned. "He really works you, huh?"

                "Definitely." 

_                Then why were you so bothered by Phil's comment earlier?_

                The elder Hardy sighed. For as well as he knew his brother, Joe could be a total mystery to him sometimes. 

                "Is the weight thing really bugging you?"

                Joe raised an eyebrow. "Not really. It's only a couple pounds."

                "Just take it easy. They're not that important." 

                "I know, Frank."

                His brother opened the door to his room, and Frank knew he had to bring it up now before he lost his nerve. 

                "Hey Joe?" 

                The younger Hardy turned halfway through his doorway.

                "About college…are you okay with me going out of state?"

                Joe frowned. "Yeah."

                "Are you sure? Because I wouldn't mind staying here for a year, if you wanted me to."

                "Wouldn't that be selfish of me," he snapped, turning away.

                "Not at all. I mean, it'll be an adjustment for me too, not working on cases for awhile. But if you want…"

                "No. I'm okay, Frank. Really."

                "Would you tell me if you weren't?"

                "Sure."

                Frank wasn't convinced, but he patted his brother's shoulder and headed into his own room. 

                Joe watched him go, feeling a little queasy. Two lies to his brother in five minutes. 

                He had no idea how good at lying he was about to become.


	6. Gertrude's Opinion

"Joseph Hardy? On a diet?"

                Joe rolled his eyes at his Aunt Gertrude's shock and forked another cherry tomato in the bowl before him. He'd always gotten a kick out of his Aunt—although she had a bad habit of being too blunt—but had known that this visit she'd be giving him hell for his new eating habits. 

                "Are you doing this just to spite me?" the elderly woman ranted on. "I come to stay for a week and you fear my cooking? Well, I'm sorry, but your poor mother deserves a break from the responsibilities of the kitchen. But there's no reason why you need to go running from food the second I show up on the doorstep—"

                "Aunt Gertrude! It wasn't my choice. It's for wrestling. Don't worry, by the time you visit us again I'll be eating normally."

                "Well I should certainly hope so. It's no good, having young men in perfectly good shape walking around eating salads all day. Especially someone like you."

                Joe grinned. "Why someone like me?"

                "Well, you don't have much else going for you. Besides your strength, I mean. And your looks, I suppose."

                The younger Hardy dropped his fork, stunned. "What?"

                "I'm just saying, dear. You know—you and Frank are a classic example of brawn and brain. And you're the brawn. So you don't want to lose too much of that strength."

                "But—" Joe was too stunned to respond. His Aunt had always been blunt, but she'd never been outright _cruel_. 

_                What is she talking about? Frank and I are well-rounded, both of us; he's smart but strong and I'm strong but smart. Right? I mean, Frank's always been a little smarter…okay, I guess a lot smarter, but we just think differently. He's more logical. He sums up situations better. But I think of new angles…_

                Suddenly, violently, Joe felt sick. 

                "I'm not hungry anymore," he mumbled, shoving his salad bowl away and heading out of the kitchen. 

                "Joseph! You barely touched your lunch."

                "I'll finish it later," he called, disappearing upstairs. He hesitated outside Frank's door—it was shut, and he heard music playing from his stereo. He imagined Frank leaning over his keyboard, typing away on a report that wasn't due until Monday, or with his books spread out over his desk, diligently studying. 

                _Maybe I should interrupt him; drag him out to a movie or something. Then I might feel better. _

_But then again, his work ethic is one of the things that makes him better than me._

Joe started to knock on the door, than lowered his hand and walked away, shutting the door to his room.

_Brawn and brain_, he thought, slumping on to his bed. _But if that's all I am, than why does he hang out with me? Frank cares about me, probably more than anyone. He's saved my life more times than I can count. But I've saved his too. We're partners; because we're equals. We balance each other. That's the truth._

_Right?_

Joe picked up his pillow and hugged it to his chest. He still felt sick, although his stomach was pretty close to empty.

_If that's all I am, than why doesn't Frank just ditch me? He could go off and be a detective on his own—I don't doubt that. He'd be a brilliant detective, a great detective. He just needs to think out loud sometimes, and that's where I come in._

Realization hit him like a blow to the head: _what if that's why Frank wants to go away to school?_

_No_! he scolded himself. _Frank would never do that. He would never ditch you. He's loyal. He's the most loyal person you know. Don't talk like that, Joe. Give your brother some more credit. He asked you if you were okay with it. He offered to stay with you. _

_But if you did…if you lost that strength, would he still need you? What are you, underneath a handsome face and body? Anything?_

Joe shuddered; it was as if another voice had entered his head. Part of him wanted to go into his older brother's room and talk, be comforted by his presence, forget what his Aunt had said or even tell Frank and have a laugh about it. But as he rose to go he thought of how many times he'd gone to his brother with problems, how many times Frank had had to bail him out of trouble, and how little the elder Hardy came to him.   

_What am I?_

_Only one way to find out._

The younger Hardy quickly changed his clothes. He was going running. But before that, he'd take the salad out of the refrigerator and stuff it down the garbage disposal. 

And tell everyone he'd finished it. 


	7. Walking

            "Hardy!"

            Joe turned from the locker-room door at the sound of his Coach's voice.

            "Come into my office for a minute."

            Joe trekked across the gym, leaving his friends behind.

            "It's been a few weeks," Coach Finley explained. "You want to hop on the scale?"

            "Sure," he said, startled by how nervous he suddenly felt. 

            He'd stuck to salads, sandwiches, and fruit the past few weeks, and begun to notice his clothes loosening a bit. His mother had told him he'd lost—Frank too. He'd surprised himself with how easily it had come off, and how little food he could really run on. 

            The _weight wanted to, needed to come off. You ought to keep going. More wants to._

            As Joe stepped on the scale, he marveled at this voice that had entered his head, this constant presence that appeared whenever he was hungry, which was often now.

            _Just listen to me. I'll take care of you. I'll get rid of it for you. Just trust me._

            "Let's see," Coach Finley stepped forward and pushed the dial on the scale up toward the 180's; Joe found himself holding his breath. But after a moment the coach let out a low whistle.

            "Congrats, son. You lost ten pounds. Good job. Just work at keeping it off, all right?"

            "Sure," Joe answered numbly, only half listening. 

            _I don't really need a whole sandwich for lunch. I could do with just fruit. And dinner's the worst. But if I cut back on breakfast…or even **skipped** breakfast…_

            "Joe? Are you all right?"

            The younger Hardy realized he hadn't moved from the scale and stepped carefully back.

            "Fine."

            "All right. Take it easy, you hear? That was a lot of weight to shed in a few weeks."

            "Sure, Coach. Thanks."

            Joe headed from the office to the locker room, knowing Frank would be out in the parking lot with the van waiting for him. 

            _You don't just need to cut the food out, you know. There's exercise, lots of it. Step that up and the food down and it'll come off faster._

            Joe paused in the doorway, suddenly feeling breathless. The workouts had gotten gradually more intense as the season went on; sometimes they felt too much to the younger Hardy, who felt light-headed and on occasion, weak. 

            _It's just for a few more weeks. Just a few more pounds. _

            Frank was in the parking-lot, a notebook spread opened in front of him on the steering wheel. Joe smiled at the familiar sight of his brother, unable to leave his work long enough to meet him, then felt a sudden burst of sadness as he thought of how the van would be waiting for him next year, but his brother wouldn't be in it. Joe would be on his own. 

            Suddenly cold, Joe shivered and knocked on the driver's-side window, startling his older brother. 

            "Hey, didn't see you," Frank said with a grin. "Hop in."

            Joe bit his lip. "I think I'm going to walk home today."

The elder Hardy's face instantly went into a frown. "You sure? You don't want to over do it."

"It's no big deal," Joe said easily. "I'll walk slow."

"It's still a couple of miles."

"I could use the exercise."

The older Hardy frowned. "Joe, you had gym, plus the workout at practice, plus the run we do everyday. Don't you think it's a little much…"

"No. Frank, it's fine. Don't worry about it."

"But I _am _worried. I think you're getting too into this…"

"_Frank_, for God's sake, I'm not some _girl_, it's _fine_, okay, Coach said I had to lose another ten pounds," he lied, inwardly surprised at how easily it came out, how convincing he was being. He never lied to his brother. He'd never _needed _to lie to his brother. And, suddenly, he hoped that Frank would somehow see through it, get out and force him in to the van, drive him somewhere and order food and command him to eat, fill the growing emptiness, take the dizziness away. 

_Look how weak you are. Pathetic. _

"I just want you to be healthy," Frank said gently. "I'm not trying to offend you."

The younger Hardy's shoulders slumped. "I know," he murmured. "I'm okay."

Frank didn't look convinced, but nodded all the same. "Why don't we go out tonight. Meet the guys at Mr. Pizza or something."

"I'd rather eat at home," Joe almost snapped. Nothing was worse than the smell of  all that grease and sauce and cheese. Not when you're hungry. 

"Then let's go drive somewhere. I don't know. I feel like we don't hang out anymore. You're always out exercising, or doing homework, or taking naps." 

Joe smiled and touched his brother's arm through the window. "Then we'll do something, okay? Don't worry so much. I'll see you at home, all right?"

Frank rolled his eyes and turned the key in the ignition as Joe turned and made his way across the parking lot toward the road, eyeing the slightly thinner waist, the slightly narrower hips, and wondering why this made him feel cold. 


	8. Homework

"Hello…"

"Frank, do it for me. I've tried, I swear, but…"

"Let me see," the older Hardy smiled, rolling his eyes. A moment earlier Joe had walked in through the bathroom, thrown his math text book and loose-leaf papers covered with equations on the bed, flopped down and put his head in his older brother's lap, knocking aside the notes Frank had been taking on the textbook opened beside him. 

"Don't. I don't even want to _look _at the damn thing. Tell me things."

"Tell you what?"

Joe grinned up at him. "Let's do some of that 'hanging out' you claim we never do."

"I _offered _to buy you dinner, but _you _said you had to do homework, and _now_…"

"Fine, fine, I know when I'm not wanted…" Joe rolled away and started to get up, only to be caught by his older brother. 

"I'll deal with you," he said with a grin, stretching and grinning, "I could use a break anyway." 

"What'cha studying?"

"World history."

"Well _that's _broad…"

"The world from 1850-1941."

"What was happening in the world from 1850-1941?"

"Haven't a clue. I was half-way through the first page when a rogue blonde head attacked my notes."

Joe rolled his eyes. "It's the damn x's and y's. I can deal with x. I can deal with y. But I can't deal with x _and _y in the _same _equation!"

The older Hardy laughed. "Give it here."

Joe sat up and pulled the textbook and papers into his lap, reluctantly letting his brother walk him through the first couple problems.

"I think I got it," he mumbled when Frank started on the third one. 

"Sure?"

"Yeah."

"You seem disappointed."

"Well, now I have to _do _them."

Frank laughed. "You can stay here, if you want. Not as lonely."

"Tha—" Joe swayed suddenly, would have gone right off the edge of the bed if Frank hadn't caught him. 

"Whoa, easy, what's wrong?"

"I don't—" he swayed again, started as darkness suddenly lined the edges of his visions, shook his head to clear it. "I'm kinda…dizzy…s'all…" he shut his eyes, felt Frank's arm go around him, as much to keep him steady as to be a comfort, felt Frank's other hand go to his forehead. 

"You're not hot," the older Hardy murmured. "You're just dizzy? Anything hurt?"

"No…maybe I'm…dehydrated or something…"

Joe felt the arm moving away, two strong hands ease him back onto the bed, heard Frank murmur 'hang on.' The bed dipped in, his brother's footsteps hurried into the bathroom, the faucet ran water, and Frank was back with a washrag he put on his brother's forehead and a glass Joe heard click as he set it on the nightstand. 

"Sit up," Frank said gently. "Lean on me. Sip this." 

Joe obeyed, forcing his eyes open as the room seemed to tilt, and drank slowly, feeling Frank's strong arm holding him steady. 

"You should get some sugar in you too."

At this Joe shivered, shook his head vehemently. 

"I don't need it. I feel better…I'm probably tired, you know…lots of work today."

The older Hardy nodded slowly. "Too much." 

Joe winced at the tone of his brother's voice, knowing there was no way out of the lecture he was about to get.

"Joe—"

"I know Frank, before you say it, please, I really am okay. Promise. I'll take it easier tomorrow, I will."

"Talk to Coach Finley. Please, Joe? For me? So I don't have to do the overprotective-big-brother thing?"

Joe stiffened, set the glass down, wriggled out from beneath his brother's arm. 

"No one said you _had _to," he muttered, gathering his papers. 

Frank's turn to wince. 

"I didn't mean it like that…"

"Well, that's what you said."

"I know it annoys you, that's all."

_Or it annoys _you _is what you really mean. _

"I think I'm going to go to bed," Joe sighed. 

"What about math?"

"I'll finish it tomorrow at lunch."

Frank nodded and patted his brother's shoulder. "If you don't feel well, yell okay?"

"Sure. Thanks, bro."

"Anytime, kid."

Joe rolled his eyes and started for the bathroom, then paused and leaned against the doorframe. 

"Frank," he asked suddenly, "do we burn calories while we sleep?"

Frank raised his eyebrows. "Sure. Not as many as when we're awake, but your body's always burning calories. It's how we stay alive."

But Joe heard one thing: not as many as when we're awake. 

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Hey," Frank seemed to materialize beside him, caught his arm. Joe realized he was swaying again, had lost track of the room for a minute.  "You okay?"

"Sure."

Frank looked at him, but Joe avoided his eyes. He couldn't look his brother in the face and lie. "Look, don't _worry _so much about calories and stuff. As long as you eat the right foods you'll maintain a healthy weight."

_Healthy_? Joe thought, clenching his hands into fists. 

_You know what he's saying, don't you? He wants you to stay this way…_

"Thanks," he mumbled again, ducking through the bathroom before Frank could stop him a second time. 

Once in his room, he sat slowly down at his computer, checking the automatic clock at the bottom of the screen. 

_If you burn fewer calories when you're asleep, you'll just have to burn more when you're awake. _

Joe pressed the bright blue "e" at the bottom of the screen and pulled up the internet, then went immediately to the online yellow pages to find the number of the local pharmacy. When he'd found it he pulled out his cell phone and went to shut the bathroom door, smiling at Frank and mouthing "Vanessa" when his brother raised an eyebrow. Nothing unusual about shutting each other out when they were on the phone with their girlfriends.

"Bayport Drugs."

"Yes, hi," Joe said quickly, realizing, suddenly, that he was nervous, "I was wondering if you sell diet pills."  


	9. Part Two

"Hey," Frank smiled as Joe stumbled in the back door, tripped over a pair of shoes, and cursed good-naturedly. 

"Who left these here!" the younger Hardy snapped.

"They're yours kiddo." 

"Oh." Joe blushed and offered his brother a sheepish grin. 

"How was your walk?"

"Fine."

He'd had to stop not his usual once, but twice today, too dizzy to keep walking straight. The past month had seen not ten, but close to twenty pounds disappear from the younger Hardy; needless to say, Frank was not the only one to begin to mention that Joe was not eating enough. His parents commented nightly as Joe picked his way around dinner, his Aunt fretted whenever she came over, and his girlfriend had begun to touch his arms and shoulders more often, to see how much weight was disappearing from his back, shoulders, and chest.

_It's just a few more pounds_, the younger Hardy insisted to anyone who mentioned that the weight was going too fast, that he was taking the diet perhaps too seriously. _I'm feeling fine. Great, really. No need to worry. _

But Frank was worried, and he knew his parents were worrying too. Joe had needed all new pants and undershirts—the old ones were just too loose. Besides that, he'd begun napping more and going to bed earlier, and struggling with dizziness on and off, despite the abnormally large amount of water he downed daily. 

"Vanessa called," the elder Hardy said as Joe set his bag down and came slowly into the kitchen, pausing to fill a tall glass with water from the sink before coming to sit across from Frank.

"What'd she say?"

"She wants us to go hang out with the gang tonight. You know, get dinner, see Tony at work…"

Joe instantly frowned. "You mean, go to Mr. Pizza."

"Sure."

"I have homework."

Frank bit back a sigh, expecting the response.

"It's Friday night, Joe."

"I'm _tired_. It's been a long week." 

"Let's just go for an hour then. We'll pop in, grab something to eat—you know it doesn't take long—and then I'll drive you home. Please? You haven't been out with us in weeks. Isn't Vanessa ready to take you hostage or something?"

Joe drained the glass and avoided his brother's gaze. "We're fine," he said shortly.  

"But you never go out. With her or with any of them."

"I go out with you."

"No. You come into my room and we talk, but we don't go out. And _never _to eat." 

"So _what_? Why is _everyone _on my case about food _all the time._ Leave me alone, okay? Look at me, I'm fine. Coach said a few more pounds—"

"I don't care!" Frank almost shouted. Joe jumped, glared at his brother and started to get up; Frank reached out and caught his arm. 

"Let go—"

"Joe, wait, sit, I'm sorry. I didn't meant to shout. I just—"

"Don't talk about it."

"Joe—"

"No more. _Please_," Joe said through gritted teeth. "I don't want to fight with you."

"Come tonight?"

The brothers watched each other, Frank slowly letting go of his brother's arm, in dismay at how slender it was growing. 

"You're scaring me," the older Hardy murmured, his voice wavering. Joe's face slowly softened, and he sat back across from his brother. Joe looked down at the table, rubbing his arm where Frank had touched it. "Did I hurt you?"

"No."

"I'm just—"

"If I come tonight, will you feel better?"

"I want you to _want _to come, that's all. You're isolating yourself." 

"I'll come out then."

"Joe—"

"I'll _come_Frank."

The elder Hardy sighed and nodded, letting Joe get up and leave the room, resisting the urge to touch his brother's shoulder, knowing it wasn't out of affection, but to check to see if any bones were beginning to rise through the skin. 

***

"You're here!"

Joe bent and quickly pecked his girlfriend's lips. "Hey babe." 

"I've missed you. Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said, forcing a smile and clenching his hands into fists to hide the sweat on his palms. Frank was eyeing him closely, although Joe was pretending he didn't notice. The drive to the restaurant had been awkward, the two brothers making small talk, not their usual friendly, easy-flowing banter. 

"You all right?" Callie asked as her boyfriend fumbled with his chair. 

"Yeah," he murmured, pecking her on the cheek. 

"Joe?" his girlfriend whispered, then patted her boyfriend's arm when he nodded. 

"Who wants what?" Chet asked after greeting the Hardys as Tony arrived at the table. 

The gang agreed on the usual pizzas and side orders while Joe, staring down at the table, mumbled that he wanted a salad and diet soda, then glanced at Frank, as if daring him to object. But Frank didn't look the least bit confrontational; Joe was surprised to see his brother looked…well, _sad_. 

"We haven't seen you around much," Callie said carefully to the younger Hardy, smiling. Joe slid his hand in to Vanessa's and shrugged.

"I've been busy." 

"You've been sleeping more than usual," Frank commented, his face critical. Joe flushed a bit.

"Coach keeps us working," Biff jumped in, attempting to ease a bit of the tension gathering at the end of the table from the obvious distance the Hardy brothers were keeping from one another. "I've been napping more than usual myself." 

There was an awkward pause as Frank and Joe watched each other, but the food arrived shortly after and Joe broke his brother's gaze, leaned in to his girlfriend and kissed her temple. 

"Are you okay?" she asked softly. He just nodded, as his friends began passing plates around, pulling slices of pizza from the racks, passing sodas down the table. He swallowed, surprised by how much the smell made him crazy, how _hungry _he actually felt; and, at the same time, how _disgusted _by the grease, cheese, and bread. 

"Sure you don't want some?" Chet asked, gesturing to the slice as Tony handed Joe his salad. 

"No," Joe forced a grin, "I'm fine." He glanced at his older brother, daring Frank to comment, but the elder Hardy was dabbing grease off his slice without meeting his brother's gaze. 

Conversation passed as usual between the friends: school, break-ups, hook-ups, sports, dances, weekend plans. But while the group ate and laughed and joked, Frank watched his brother eat with increasing anxiety; before, Joe would have attacked the salad; now, he picked around the tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots to individual pieces of lettuce that he carefully cut into tiny pieces. 

            "You're not having much," he said carefully when his brother pushed the bowl aside. Joe shrugged.

            "I had a big lunch."

            Vanessa turned to him, frowning. "No you didn't. You just had an apple…remember? You said you had a big breakfast."

            "I did."

            "No," Franks said slowly, "you didn't have anything for breakfast. You said you were running late."

            "I was," Joe avoided their eyes and shifted uncomfortably. Vanessa looked anxiously at Frank, but his eyes remained locked on his brother.

            "Joe, what…"

            "I'm fine, Frank. It's fine."

            "Joe," Vanessa murmured, "are you okay? I mean, if that's all you've eaten…"

"Don't mother me," the younger Hardy snapped, shoving himself away from the table. "Both of you. I'm fine."

"Where are you going?"

"You said we could go home after we ate." 

The conversation died at the table as everyone turned to stare at the younger Hardy. 

"Don't you want to stick around a little longer? Look, you're not even finished—"

"I'm _finished_," Joe snapped. "Look, can I have the keys?"

Vanessa turned, wide-eyed, to Frank; in fact, all eyes were slowly turning toward Frank, as if to say _what's wrong with your brother? You should know; you always do. _

_I don't, _Frank realized, _I have no freakin' clue. _

"I'll drive you," the elder Hardy said, leaving his second slice half-eaten and handing Callie a twenty to help pay. He bid the group good-bye, kissed his girlfriend quickly, and hurried out the door after his brother. 


	10. The First Fight

"Joe."

The younger Hardy started and sat up; he hadn't heard his brother come through the bathroom.

"Need something?"

Frank nodded. "Can I come in?"

"Sure."

Joe scooted down near the headboard so Frank could sit beside him on the bed. Frank was still dressed, but Joe was in a t-shirt and sweatpants. 

"Going to bed already?" the elder Hardy asked.

"It's ten."

"That still seems early." 

"It's been a long day."

Frank nodded and looked down at the floor, avoiding his brother's gaze. 

"Frank, what's wrong?"

The elder Hardy took a deep breath, then laid a gentle hand on his brother's arm. 

"Joe," he began, "just listen, okay? I'm not trying to upset you, and I don't want to fight. I care about you, that's all, and I'm worried that you're not taking care of yourself. I'm not saying you're sick or crazy or anything, but it worries me that you're not eating enough. An apple is what, eighty calories? Sixty?"

"Ninety-five," Joe murmured, looking away. 

Frank took a deep breath. "So an apple and lettuce, that's all you had today. That's what, 150 calories?"

"One hundred and ten," Joe snapped. "The medium apples are ninety-five and a cup of lettuce is fifteen." 

Frank bit his lip, hard. "Do you _hear _yourself? Joe, do you know how many calories you burn in a day _without _exercise, yet alone all the activity you're doing—"

"Frank, _please _I'm fine, I swear. No—" he rushed on when Frank tried to interrupt, "I know you're worried. I _appreciate _you worrying. But I'm really okay. All I have to lose is a few more pounds—"

"That's what you've been saying for two months now! Joe, you're not only small for your old category, you're _too _small. You know what Chet told me today? That Coach Finley had to drop you down a category, because you're too small to compete in your old one. You've lost what, thirty pounds? And it's not weight, Joe. It's muscle. You're beginning to look kind of sick." He reached out and slowly put an arm around his younger brother, who stiffened at his brother's touch. "I'm not mad. I'm just worried."

Joe began at the threads on his bed spread, refusing to meet his brother's concerned gaze. 

"Look…I appreciate it, Frank. I'll eat a little more, if it will make you feel better, okay?"

"Why did you lie about your category?"

"I didn't _lie_, Coach told me he wanted me in that other one, thought it was better suited for me. He thinks I can do better there, he told me so when I went on a diet. Honest." 

"But I don't _like _this. It's not as if you were out of shape and _needed _to drop the weight. You were fine to begin with."

"I wasn't."

"You _were_."

"I _wasn't _okay," Joe snapped, throwing off Frank's arm, "I'm _not _okay, God, can't you all just _stop. _Look, it's my body, all right? I can take care of it. I don't need you all lying to me, telling me what I look like when I _know _all right?"

"So you know you're too thin?"

"I know I'm fine." 

"But that's just _it_, kid, I don't think you are—"

"Don't call me kid. I hate when you call me that."

"Don't change the subject."

"Take a hint then! Let it go!"

"_No_. I'm not going to sit back and let you make yourself sick, Joe!"

"I'm _not sick_!"

"Let's see," he said sharply, "the male body needs around 2,500 calories a day to _maintain _a healthy weight. In order to _lose _one pound per week, doctors recommend eating roughly 1,500 calories per day plus exercising. Now, you consumed _110 _calories today, which is enough to lose about _ten _pounds per week, _plus _exercised in gym, at wrestling, and when you walked home. You're sleeping much more than usual, tire easily, don't fit in any of your old clothes, and have dizzy spells. But you're fine. You don't want my advise or anyone else's, you just want to go about making all the wrong decisions and expect the people who care about you to sit back and respect them. This is bullshit, Joe, do you know that? It's all bullshit. I want to know what's _really _going on, because I know enough about eating disorders to know that it's not about the food or the weight. That's all a distraction. That's right," Frank snapped as Joe tried to interrupt, "_eating disorders_. You're showing signs, you know that? Not just with weight and calorie counting and obsessive exercising, but this isolating yourself, Joe. You won't come out, you wont' _talk _to anyone, including me. I just want to help you, bro, that's all. If something's bothering you, you can tell me, you know that, right? Joe? Do you know that?" 

Joe felt heat rising to his face and stared at the carpet. Girls had eating disorders, not guys, not athletes, not him. Frank was being ridiculous, overprotective and worrisome as usual. 

"Thank you," the younger Hardy said mechanically. "I'll think about it." 

Frank felt his shoulders slump. 

"Have it your way," he snapped, getting to his feet.  "I'm not done with this. But since you're so tired I guess I'd better go. Don't want to be a problem—"

Joe's eyes widened. "Frank, you're not—"

"No, you know best, right? I'll see you tomorrow. And we _will _talk tomorrow."

Frank was through the doorway crossing the bathroom before Joe had a chance to protest, pausing only to turn on the light in his room. He was shaken and trying hard not to show it, because he hadn't expected Joe to be so resistant to him; had expected him to argue a bit, maybe, but not _resist. _He'd figured his brother had just got his information wrong, was confused with calories, hadn't realized how little he'd been consuming. 

It had not occurred to him that Joe might be doing this on purpose. 

"Don't leave."

The plea startled the older Hardy, and he turned to see his younger brother in the doorway, gripping the edge as if for support.

"Are you dizzy again?" Frank asked. 

Joe just nodded and let his brother help him back to his own bed, this time weakening rather than stiffening when Frank slipped an arm around his shoulders. The two sat in silence for a moment, Frank slowly rubbing his brother's arm as Joe swayed a bit.  

"Joe—" he began.

"Don't say it," the younger Hardy pleaded—was it Frank's imagination, or was his brother trembling?—"just don't go. Frank, please don't go."

"I'm right here," the older Hardy murmured, pulling his younger brother closer. Joe bit his lip as he leaned into the embrace, deciding not to explain to his brother that Frank had misunderstood, that it wasn't the present his brother was afraid of losing him in. 


	11. Realization

Joe slammed the door to the men's room upstairs, kicked at a stall, swayed, reached out and caught the wall to keep himself from falling. 

            _Easy Hardy.__ Over to the sink. You know the routine. It's okay…_

He transferred control to this new voice, allowing it to pull him to the sink, where he turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, then reached for the paper towels, wiped his face clean, and sat carefully down on the floor beside the row of sinks, leaning back against the wall, drew his legs up against his chest, and rested his forehead on his bent knees. 

            He hated fights with his brother. Hated them more than anything. He shouldn't have pushed him—that was the damn impulsivity, his blessing and curse. But Frank had made him so angry he couldn't think, wasn't thinking, had to get the anger out and away from him, put it somewhere else. Why would he do this? Go behind his back, making things up, insisting he was fine—

            _Am I_?

            Joe shivered and raised his head, got slowly to his feet, and made his way past the stalls to the full-length mirror at the end of the row, remembering the image of his brother standing behind him, Frank's chest and legs and shoulders passing his own. The contrast of their two bodies had startled him, had, for a moment, broken through the distortion he saw when he looked in the mirror. 

            Even now, as he looked, he seemed to be growing, swelling, and now he remembered that he had in fact expanded beyond his brother, that in fact none of Frank could be seen in the mirror it was all him, all Joe, all Joe's disgusting large out of control body, this body that was evil it is being evil now the stomach is growling evil thing calling attention! attention! and Joe stumbled back to the sink, swaying, turned on the tap, cupped his hands and drank until he felt sick. 

            _You're a terrible person, you know that?_

The bell rang, summoning everyone back to class, and Joe realized his backpack was still in the cafeteria, that he'd be late. 

            _Frank's fault.__ All Frank's fault. Not only does he not need you, he wants you to stay this way, stay dependent on him, be the ignorant wild crazy one no one can control no one likes no one can look at wants you to be in his control but you're not anymore you're in your own and he resents it you know that right?_

_            Right?_

Joe paused at the doorway, suddenly trembling. It wasn't true. Whatever these new thoughts were, wherever they were coming from, they weren't true. Frank _did _care about him; Joe knew this, believed this, had always known it, couldn't remember _not _knowing it. 

            _So why am I thinking this? Is this the truth? Is this really me?_

_            Terrible, terrible person.  _

Realization hit him: it was, it was him, and since it was, since he had attacked his brother for _caring _about him, this could only mean one thing: this evil little voice was right.  


	12. Practice

"You need a hug." 

            Frank laughed as his girlfriend wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. Classes had just let out for the day; Frank barely remembered them. He'd been distracted all day, searching the halls for his brother in between classes and at lunch—not to talk, just to observe. Observe him avoiding contact with those around him, ignoring people he would have said hi to before, cutting his apple into tiny slices at lunch, pausing every chance he got to drink from the water fountain, taking so long that people waiting began to complain. 

            "I'm serious, babe. You seem so down." 

            "I'm okay." He sighed and hugged her back, feeling relieved, if only for the moment. "Just a little worried."

            Callie nodded as she pulled away. "Joe again?"

            "Joe again."

            "What'd he do now?"

            Frank looked away, wishing he could erase the mental image of his brother's emaciated back, the bent shoulders, his older brother's shirt draping loosely over his slender frame.

            "Frank?"

            _Frank? You all right?_

"Are you okay?"

            _I…need…nevermind…_

            "I'm…just…yeah."

            Callie raised her eyebrows. "_That _was convincing." 

            "I'm sorry baby," the elder Hardy sighed, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't even been able to argue with his brother last night, couldn't comprehend it, how frail he was becoming, how resistant to anyone's advice, how ignorant of their feelings. He'd gone to his room, sat on the bed, picked up his pen and, with a trembling hand, scrawled one last sentence: _Joe is becoming emaciated. _But today had been a different story. 

            _He needed to hear it. And I need everyone to start policing him with me. _

            "Did you argue again at dinner?"

            Frank nodded. "Mom and Dad are on his back too. And Aunt Gertrude's coming this weekend, thinks she can help."

            Callie bit her lip. "Do you think she can? Your Aunt can be a little…harsh at times, I guess."

            "_You're _telling _me_?"

            Callie laughed, then touched her boyfriend's arm gently. "Think he'd come out if we asked him instead?"

            "No."

            Her expression softened; she touched her boyfriend's cheek. 

            "I'm sorry baby. I wish I knew what to say. How to help."

            "You're doing it," Frank sighed, bending to kiss her cheek. 

            "Why don't we hang out this weekend, the two of us, watch a movie or something, get your mind off things." 

            "I have a paper due Monday, plus Aunt Gertrude will be around. How about next week?"

            "Sounds good. I get to pick the movie."

            "I thought this was to cheer _me _up—"

            "By spending time with _me_ silly."

            "I see."

            "I've got to go. Call me tonight?"

            "Sure thing."

            "And try not to worry too much."

            "Will do."

            "Or work too hard. Aren't you going home?"

            "No, the library. That way I can give Joe a ride home after practice and work on my paper."

            "The proverbial one bird, two stones."

            "Um…"

            "Was that backwards?"

            "Think so."

            She laughed, kissed him goodbye, and went off down the hall. Frank turned to his locker, gathered his books, and made his way to the first floor library, walked down the third aisle, and began scanning the covers, realizing after a few minutes that he hadn't even read the essay question yet. 

            _You're losing it Hardy. Get a grip, you're not doing anyone any good falling apart worrying. _

            But even as he thought it and made his way to one of the tables he was shaking his head at himself, knowing it was useless; he'd always been protective of his younger brother, looked out for him, tried to hold him back when he'd gotten too wild. And his feeling was reciprocated: Joe watched out for Frank, forced him away from his books and computer, made him laugh and have fun, knew just what to say and do to make him feel better. The brothers took each other's advice seriously. They disagreed—their personalities were too different not to—but never ignored one another's feelings or opinions, wanting to avoid fighting at all costs. Neither one did very well when arguing with the other. 

            _I don't want a fight, Joe, don't you get it, don't you see—_      

"Frank."

            The elder Hardy spun around, startled by the voice behind him: a grave looking Chet, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, stood close behind him.

            "Hey," Frank smiled. "You startled me. Aren't you supposed to be at practice?"

            "I was."

            The smile slowly faded from Frank's face as he saw how pale his friend was. "Chet? What's wrong?"

            "It's Joe," the boy said slowly. Frank felt his heart pick up speed.

            "Joe…"

            "He collapsed, Frank. They need you in the gym."


	13. Dr Gertrude

"Why don't you just make him eat?"

            Laura Hardy raised her eyes to her sister-in-law over her coffee cup and sighed.

            "He's seventeen years old, Gert. I can't strap in a high-chair and spoon feed him."

            "Sit him down, fill a plate with food, and tell him he's not getting up until he finishes."

            Laura shook her head, setting her coffee down and looking away out the window. 

            "I don't understand it," she murmured, "I mean, something more is going on here, I know that much about these things, but—"

            "What things?"

            Laura winced, realizing everyone seemed to be avoiding the words. "You know…eating disorders."

            "_Eating _disorders?"

            "You know—"

            "Yes I do, I know it's nonsense."

            "_Nonsense_?" 

            "Nonsense! If someone doesn't feel like eating, you sit down and make them eat until they're over it."

            "Gert…it isn't like that."

            "How _is _it then?"

            "I'm not really sure, but I know it's a…mental disorder. An illness. You can't help it, it just kind of grows and takes you over. You can't control what you eat or don't eat anymore, although you're convinced you're all right."

            Gertrude shook her head. "If you ask me it's a matter of vanity. Girls who want to be thin for their boyfriends who decide not to eat. If there weren't so many naked women on TV we wouldn't have these issues."

            "It doesn't have to be a woman. And it's not about body image."

            "It's about being thin, of _course _it's about body image!"

            Laura sighed, knowing it was useless to try to talk her sister-in-law out of anything. She didn't blame her; Gertrude was from another time, a time where there was poor mental health care, where you were taught to "get over" emotions, not to try to understand them. And talking to the elder women made her realize how much she lacked a knowledge and understanding of the issues that may be plaguing her younger son. 

            "What does Fenton plan on doing?"

            Laura started as the phone rang. "We're both just going to watch what he eats and do some reading…hello?"

            "I'll cook a nice dinner, and we'll sit him down and let him know we're serious. You'll see, it'll be—"

            Gertrude cut off when she saw Laura put a hand over her mouth, then murmur a few questions into the phone. 

            "Thank you," she finally said, quickly hanging up and running for her purse. 

            "Who was that?" the elder lady demanded as Laura threw on her coat and pulled out her car keys. 

            "The school," Laura called as she rushed out the back door. "Joe fainted at practice." 


	14. A Growing Rift

Frank caught up with the rest of the team, Coach Finley, and his unconscious brother in the health office, where the school nurse was taking his Joe's blood pressure while the Coach pressed a cool cloth against his forehead. 

"Did anyone call an ambulance?" Frank demanded, realizing he sounded a little too harsh. 

_Easy Hardy.__ Don't flip out. Joe's been unconscious often enough…_

But this was different: there were no bad guys, no criminals or crooks out to get them; the enemy was his brother's own mind.

"His blood pressure's all right," the nurse said, "and his heart rate and temperature. I didn't see the need."

Frank nodded, took the washrag from Coach Finely, and perched on the edge of the cot his brother was lying on, noting how small his legs looked in his sweatpants, how thin his torso was in his t-shirt.  

            "Joe," he murmured, touching the rag to his brother's temple. "Come on. Wake up. It's okay, you're all right, just wake up, okay?"

            "Let's give them some room," Coach Finley said, touching Frank's shoulder and herding the group of anxious teens out into the hall. Frank pushed against his brother's temple a little harder, relieved when his brother turned his head a bit and groaned. 

            "That's it, easy kiddo, you're all right."

            "Hmm," Joe sighed, frowning, his eyes still closed. "Frank?"

            "I'm here. Just rest for a minute, okay? It's all right. How do you feel?"

            The younger Hardy turned his head, leaning in to his brother's hand. "Dizzy," he mumbled. "Kinda…weak…"

            The nurse got to her feet and disappeared into a door on the right; Frank heard the sound of a refrigerator being opened and closed, and she returned a moment later with a paper cup of juice. 

            "Can you help him sit up?" she asked. 

            Frank nodded and slid an arm beneath his brother's shoulders, taking the weight of his head and back against his shoulder as he lifted him to a sitting position, steadying him with both arms once he was upright. 

            "Easy," he murmured when Joe swayed and made a small sound in his throat. "I've got you, kiddo."

            "Hm," Joe closed his eyes and leaned against his brother. "Room's all shaky."

            "Here," the nurse said, handing the paper cup to Frank. "Sip this, okay?"

            Frank held the cup to his brother's mouth and tilted it back, letting him take a small sip, startled when Joe suddenly jerked away from him and the cup.

            "What is that?" he snapped. 

            "Just apple juice. You need some sugar—"

            "I don't need that. I don't want that. I want some water."

            Frank stared at his brother with growing horror. 

            "You're afraid of the calories," he breathed, his part picking up speed, catching his brother as Joe swayed again. "Here, come on, lean on me…"

            "I don't…need that, just some water, I'm dehydrated is all…"

            The nurse set her jaw. "Have you had anything to eat today?"

            The younger Hardy stiffened; Frank tightened his arm, sensing his brother's longing to slide away. 

"What?"

            "What have you eaten today?"

            "I…enough, I had enough."

            "Let's see," Frank snapped, "you had what for breakfast, an apple? Did you even eat that, or did you throw it away?"

            "Ate it," Joe mumbled, beginning to frown. 

            "Are you lying?"

            The younger Hardy's hands began to tremble; he clenched them into fists. "I ate it."

            "Look at me and tell me that."

            Joe sat up, tried to pull away. Frank held him fast. 

            "Let go, Frank, I had most of it…"

            "You're lying."

            "Am not…"

            "Look at me and say it!"

            Joe just shook his head and slumped wearily against Frank's chest. 

            "Godamnit, Joe…"

            The nurse reached out and touched the younger Hardy's arm. 

            "Joe, look at me. Did you have any lunch?"

            "He didn't," Frank murmured, remembering the argument. "Don't even let him tell you he did."

            The nurse nodded. "Joe, I want you to listen to me. You need to drink this. You need calories for energy, and your body has none, and that's why you're weak."

            Joe just shook his head and leaned away from Frank to grip the edge of the cot. 

            "I'm okay now," he mumbled, trying to pull himself to his feet; Frank was quick too stop him. 

            "Sit down, where the hell do you think you're going?"

            "Away from you! You don't know what you're talking about—"

            "_Yes I do._" Frank gripped his brother's arm, pulling his arm back against the mattress. Joe was too weak to pull away. 

            "Drink this."

            The younger Hardy glared at his brother in rage at first, struggling against his brother's grip; realizing he couldn't break it, and that he wouldn't be released until the cup was empty, a look of panic began to come over his face. "Frank…no—"

            "_Drink _it Joe."

            "I don't want it, please—"

            "You _need _it, your body does, I don't care if you want it or not. Just swallow it, don't think—"

            "Frank, _please_—"

            "What is the matter with you?"

            The younger Hardy clenched his hands into fists and looked down at the floor, his face flushing. He raised one hand and weakly struck at his knee. The elder Hardy could feel him trembling.

            "I'm scared, okay?" he said so softly the two sitting with him almost missed it. Frank and the nurse exchanged a glance, then the nurse sighed and informed them she was calling Mrs. Hardy. Frank thanked her as she went into her office, then turned back to Joe, who was continuing to hit his knee.

            "Don't do that," the elder Hardy murmured, releasing his brother arm and putting his hand over Joe's.

            "Quit bossing me around!"

            Frank sighed, released his brother's hand, and slowly put an arm around his younger brother's shoulders.

            "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be condescending. And I don't want a fight, all right? I'm scared too, Joe. _You're _scaring me."

            Joe looked away from his brother and out the window. "I don't mean to."

            "I know you're not doing this on purpose, and I know you're scared, but you have to drink this. And eat something. But this first. Your body is telling you that it can't do this anymore, buddy. It needs something to keep it going. You have to do this, Joe. Look, I'm right here, I'm with you. Nothing bad will come of this, promise. Trust me? Try to?"

            The younger Hardy didn't answer for almost a minute; Frank felt his shoulders slowly slumping, but it didn't feel as if he was relaxing: it felt defeated. 

            "I trust you," he finally murmured. "Don't talk like I don't."

            "Doesn't feel like you have lately, is all."

            "What, because I don't swallow everything you tell me without question?"

            "Bad pun."

            "Frank!"

            The elder Hardy sighed in frustration, seized his brother's hand, and placed the cup in it. 

            "Sorry," he snapped, getting to his feet. "I guess I was under the impression that my opinion, and your friend's opinions, and your family's opinions, and all of us worrying, might mean more to you than wanting to be thin," Frank turned and made his way to the door, pausing only to turn back to his wide-eyed brother. "Guess I was wrong."

            It was a dare on his part, and he half-hoped his brother would call his bluff, would say "nice try, but I know you'd never actually leave me," and he marveled at his own disappointment a moment later when Joe called, "Wait…Frank…please…don't just go…"

            The elder Hardy turned back, crossed his arms, and watched his brother watching the cup he held in his now trembling hand. Frank felt a rush of guilt: it had been a bit cruel on his part to use his knowledge of his brother as he did, knowing all too well that Joe would never do anything to deliberately hurt the people he cared about, as Frank had implied he was doing. But then again, he was starting to feel more than fear, but terror, and terror, no matter how brave or strong or level-headed you were normally, drove people to desperation. 

            "I'm _confused_, is all…I don't want to upset anyone…I don't want to fight…"

            Frank felt something tug in his chest at seeing how small his brother looked, how young, how terribly frightened and sad and alone, couldn't bear it, crossed the room to kneel in front of him and rest his hands lightly on his brother's knees. 

            "We're not fighting," he said gently, "we're working through things. We'll work this out. Just do this for me now and we'll talk. I'm still here, see?"

            Joe nodded and, with trembling hands, raised the cup to his lips, took a deep breath, and began to drink. Frank felt his own shoulders slump with relief, nodding encouragingly when Joe lowered it, half-empty. 

            "See? Not so bad. Just—"

            Joe shuddered so hard it was almost violent, shook his head, and suddenly threw the cup, still half-full, across the room, spilling its contents all over the nurse's floor. 

            "You don't know!" he almost shouted, lowering his head to his hands and rocking himself back and forth, continuing to shake. "You don't know anything! You think you do because you want me to be one way, act one way, you want to control me, and I'm not listening anymore, look what you did! Look at me, do you see what that juice just did to me I can feel it, it's making me bigger already…"

            Frank felt his eyes widen, shock making him breathless. "Joe…it's not…"

            "Boys."

            Both turned to see their mother rushing through the nurse's office door as the nurse came out from her office. 

            "What happened?" Mrs. Hardy and the nurse asked at the same time. 

            "We had a fight," Joe mumbled, crossing his arms and moving away from his brother. 

            Frank got shakily to his feet, avoiding his mother's questioning gaze. 

            "I heard you fainted."

            Joe nodded, rubbing his eyes. "I'm okay now. A little tired, that's all."

            "I'll take you home. What do they think it was?"

            Frank's eyes locked with Joe's; for once, the pair couldn't read each other's expressions. 


	15. Eating Dinner?

"I don't see why I can't be a part of this," Gertrude stormed, pacing the living room in front of the closed kitchen door. Frank sighed and looked away, wishing she'd settle down.

"It's not really your business, Aunt G.," Frank said carefully. "I mean, you haven't been here to watch him." 

"That doesn't mean I'm not concerned!"

"I didn't say it _did_."

The pair were waiting anxiously outside the kitchen, where Fenton and Laura were hard at work trying to convince their younger son to eat a decent meal. Between the nurse, Coach Finley, and Frank, Laura had gotten the story of Joe's collapse in the gym and the reason behind it. She'd called Fenton on the way home while Frank followed in the van, his eyes continually wandering back to his brother's blonde hair. He was still shaken by Joe's comments on the juice and by the fight they'd had, but he was relieved that something would be done.

Something already had been; Joe had been kicked off the wrestling team. 

"It's not that you've done anything wrong," Coach Finley had told the distressed younger Hardy. "It's that your health is more important."

"He's right," Laura had said firmly. "You have to get better before you can wrestle. Until you've gained some weight, you're not exercising." 

Joe had argued, but not as much as Frank had expected. He looked confused, a little angry, but mostly melancholy and puzzled. 

"I didn't mean for it to _be _like this," he'd said finally, meeting Frank's eyes from across the room. 

_Oh, Joe, please know we're not punishing you…_ Frank had thought, looking away before his own eyes filled. 

Joe had gone to his room as soon as they'd gotten home, shutting the doors to his room. Frank and Laura had explained what went on to Gertrude and then again to Fenton when he arrived, and the four had decided to prepare a light but healthy dinner and not let him go until it was finished. 

But when Joe was called downstairs and realized what was going on he'd immediately began arguing, saying the same things he'd said earlier, that he was fine, that everyone was trying to force him into something he didn't want to be, that no one understood, that it wasn't fair to punish him for how he wanted to be. 

"This is ridiculous, Joseph!" Gertrude had nearly shouted, "you look sick and you're going to eat until you're not and that's not up for negotiation."

"Gert," Fenton had said carefully, "maybe it's best if you left."

"Frank too," Joe echoed, not looking at his older brother. 

Frank still shuddered to remember the coldness in his younger brother's voice, the fights left unresolved. But he'd taken his Aunt by the arm and the two had retreated to the living room, where Fenton had shut the door behind them.   

And here they were.

Gertrude sighed, glanced at her nephew, slumped on the couch with his head in his hands, and stopped moving.

"Why didn't he want _you _in there?"

Frank winced, rubbed his eyes. "We had a pretty nasty fight today."

"You two?"

"No. The other two."

"Frank, don't be smart."

The elder Hardy brother sighed. "I'm sorry."

Gertrude crossed the room and sat beside her nephew, touching his shoulder lightly. 

"Was it about this?"

Frank sighed and nodded. "I went to his Coach," he murmured, "that's why he missed lunch."

"Frank, don't you dare blame yourself."

"What am I supposed to do?" he wailed suddenly. "I haven't done anything, all these weeks! I let him walk home every day! I let him skip breakfast and lunch and lie to our parents!"

"So you haven't said anything until now? I don't believe that."

"Well, no, I _said _things…"

"And you didn't tell your friends and parents?"

"No, I told them…"

"And didn't you just say you went to his Coach?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Frank, you are _not responsible_. We both know what a stubborn-headed idiot your brother can be—"

"Don't call him that." 

"I'm just saying."

"_Don't call him that._"

The two lapsed into silence, Frank replacing Gertrude in the pacing before the door. Everything felt too quiet. Frank expected his parents to be yelling, Joe to be yelling. But then again, he'd been wrong, terribly wrong, about everything else, why shouldn't he be wrong about how his parents took care of his brother? Frank didn't know, Frank hadn't stopped it, Frank couldn't take care of Joe, had failed, was a failure…

The elder Hardy sighed and sank back onto the sofa, putting his head in his hands. A moment later his Aunt's hand reached out and began rubbing his back slowly. 

"Don't blame yourself, dear," she said in uncustomary softness, "you're not going to do your brother any good if you start second-guessing yourself and your intentions. We all know you've been trying."

"I'm supposed to know him best," Frank mumbled, "I'm supposed to get through when no one else does."

Gertrude was about to answer when the door opened and Joe stalked out, moving quickly toward the stairs, his parents following behind him. 

"Joe, do you need to talk—" his mother started.

"No. I want you to leave me alone. I want _everyone _to leave me alone!"

"Son," Fenton began, but Joe sprinted up the stairs, slamming the door to his room a moment later. 

Laura sighed, and Fenton rubbed his eyes. 

"Anything?" Frank asked anxiously. 

Laura nodded. "He ate. It took awhile, but he finished it all. We told him we thought he should see someone, a doctor or something, and I guess that scared him enough to get him to try." 

"Well, he did," Gertrude said, standing and surveying the dismayed and anxious Hardys, "let's get the rest of you fed. Come on. Let him be."

Fenton and Laura reluctantly followed Gertrude back into the kitchen, uncharacteristically silent; Frank remained, hands in his pockets, staring longingly up the stairs after his brother. 


	16. A New Symptom

_Failure, miserable stupid horrible failure how could you how could you think you deserved that feel it feel what they've done to you you terrible, terrible thing not a person a thing an it not worthy of regular pronouns either you're hurting everyone or abusing your body with food…_

Joe threw his hands over his ears as if to block out his mind, pacing violently from one side of the room to the other, hitting the wall, whirling around, going back across the rug to the other wall, turning again.

_I didn't want it isn't that enough for you! Leave me alone, like everyone else has I don't want it I'm scared I'm sorry just stop, stop, stop telling me I'm worthless I know that already they made me they were upset and angry and they made me I don't want to have to go to some shrink, to have some doctor tell me what I already know that I'm fine that everything's fine that I'm healthy, healthier than most he'll say I know why is everyone trying to unravel me, my work, what is _wrong _with everyone?_

The room swayed; Joe leaned against the wall, catching his breath, fighting the dizziness, and suddenly felt a wave of sadness, misery, as if the dizziness was a jolt of reality. 

_I'm tired. Tired of being dizzy. Tired of being hungry. Tired of fighting._

_Frank…_

The younger Hardy closed his eyes, remembering the argument with his brother, the warmth of his arm, steadying and firm yet gentle and comforting, the look of desperation in his eyes as he knelt in front of him, the tenderness of his fingers pressing the cool cloth against his temple. 

And the anger, the fear, him walking toward the door of the office. His brother turning away. 

Joe, trembling, made his way to the mirror, looked himself over. Chest too thick, shoulders too wide, arms too large, legs too thick. Face looked thinner, that was a good sign, but still…

No wonder Frank was mad. No wonder he couldn't stand to be near him, couldn't stand to look at him. Who could look at all this filth?

_And there'll be more of you. Feel that, in your stomach? Dinner. Pasta, chicken, fruit, vegetables, milk. All forced on you, but you accepted it, without question! Failure, miserable stupid horrible failure how could you…_

Joe slammed his fist against the wall, turned, and went to his door, checking to make sure it was locked, then hurried through his room to the bathroom, locked his side of the door, then Frank's, lifted the lid of the toilet, knelt on the floor, shoved his fingers into the back of his throat, and vomited into the toilet.


	17. Getting Better?

Frank took a deep breath, steadied himself, then raised a hand and knocked on his brother's door. It amazed him: what used to be the most simple, casual gesture now left his heart pounding, so afraid of his brother ignoring him, of Joe shouting "go away!" or some other form of rejection. But instead there was silence; Frank knocked again. 

            "What?" came the muffled call from the other side of the door. 

            "It's Frank."

            No answer.

            "You okay?"

            The door opened; Joe stood there in a hooded Bayport sweatshirt and black sweatpants. 

            "I've been better," he murmured. 

            Frank nodded sympathetically. "Just thought I'd check in."

            Joe bit his lip, then pulled the door back. "You want to come in maybe?"

            The elder Hardy nodded and allowed his brother to hold the door open, crossing the room and sitting on Joe's bed as his brother shut the door and came almost shyly over to sit beside him.

            "I'm sorry," they both said at once. 

            "Me first?" Frank asked.

            "No." Joe sighed. "I don't want to talk anymore tonight, Frank, please. I'm not over it."

            "What's 'it?'" 

            "That you went to see Coach Finley. That you won't _listen _to a word I'm saying—"

            "Even though _you _won't hear a word _I'm _saying—"

            "I _hear _you, I'm telling you you're _wrong_—"

            "I'm telling you you're hurting yourself—"

            "_Stop_! I said I don't want to fight anymore!"

            The elder Hardy sighed and looked down at the floor. "I don't want to fight either."

            "Then quit acting like everything I say and do is wrong!"

            Frank turned and seized his brother by the shoulders, startling him. 

            "Joe, Icareaboutyou. Do you know that? Do you believe it?"

            The younger Hardy looked wary, then slowly nodded. 

            "Good."

            The elder Hardy released him, then started to get up.

            "Where are you going?" Joe asked, startled.

            "Well, you don't want to hear anything I have to say—"

            "That's not true!"

            "—so I figured—"

            "Frank, stay. Let's talk. About other things. Can't we still do that? Aren't we still friends?"

            Frank's felt a tug at his chest, of sympathy, of sadness. "Of course we are," he said gently, "and friends have disagreements they have to work through. They can't pretend they're not angry when they are."

            Joe didn't answer. Frank sighed, ran a hand through his hair, sat back down. 

            "I ate dinner," Joe said softly.

            "I know. I'm proud of you."

            The younger Hardy snorted angrily. "Don't think I'm okay with that either."

            "How did you feel? After you'd eaten?"

            Joe looked down at the bedspread and closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it. Frank, _please_, let's not talk about it."

            "Joe, you're scaring me. You're scaring me so much."

            Joe shut his eyes and fell back on his bed, hitting the mattress with his fist. 

            "Fine," Frank rolled his eyes, "no more tonight. Just know that if I drive you crazy, I'm not doing it out of spite, kiddo."

            Joe still didn't answer. Frank sighed, then lay down beside his brother, turning to look at Joe's ceiling, listening to the air going into his brother's lungs, seeping out. A little faster than usual, Frank thought, then felt a touch of sadness at how well he knew _everything _about his younger brother, always had. Until now. 

            "They won't let me exercise."

            Joe's remark was so soft Frank almost didn't hear it. 

            "How am I supposed to be better if I can't _exercise?_"

            Frank turned, catching the tremor of his brother's voice, seeing his brother's eyelashes flutter and grow damp as he held in tears. Frank rolled on to his side, reached out his hand, and stroked his younger brother's hair. 

            "It's okay," he murmured. "You'll be all right, you'll see."

            Joe shook his head slightly, then took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes, opened them and stared at his ceiling. 

            "I like this view," he said, trying to smile, "it's the one part of my room that's clean."

            Frank laughed and turned onto his back again. "I don't know, looks like you could wipe it down some."

            "How long is Aunt G. staying?"

            "The rest of the week, maybe. Don't know."

            "How'll she get to work?"

            "She has her car."

            "Isn't it farther from here?" 

            "An extra twenty-minutes, not bad."

            "She's not helping."

            Frank remembered their earlier conversation. "She tries."

            Joe frowned, then reached down and ran a hand over his stomach, ribs, chest. Frank watched him, waiting, but his brother stayed silence.

            "Something on your mind?" the elder Hardy asked after a minute or two of silence. 

            Joe started to say something and yawned instead.

            "Fair enough," the elder Hardy grinned, ruffling his brother's hair. "Look, it's the weekend, and I don't have any plans. We'll talk some more, okay? We'll hang out or whatever. I'll help you."

            The younger Hardy looked straight at his brother, nodded slowly. 

            "Thanks," he murmured. 

            Frank's journal entry that night was one of hope: _Joe seems to be opening up a bit. Hopefully this is a sign of understanding, possibly recovery. _

            How could he know that, as he penned those last words, his brother pulled a bottle of water from under the bed and swallowed the last four Dexatrim in the bottle? 


	18. Binge

            Joe was amazed at how easily he adapted.

            He still limited his calories as much as he could, putting up a fight at meals, cutting food into miniscule pieces to make it seem he had eaten more than he had, taking his diet pills, and drinking his water, but now he also visited the bathroom three teimes a day, feeding the toilet his regurgitated meal. Although he hated throwing up, he found he liked this new routine: he was still losing weight, but he didn't have to be as restrictive as he was before. Not only that, but his family and friends backed off as the week went on, pleased that he seemed to be trying, even more pleased when he told them he had gained two pounds. Another lie.  

            Deprived of exercise, he felt he had very little choice. The voice in his head insisted with renewed fury that the weight come off, come off faster, that he should push harder, lie more, cut even farther back, vomit again, lie lie lie…

            But try as he may, he could not escape the wary eye of his brother, could not escape Frank's continuous presence, the looking over his shoulder, the questioning what he ate, the fear and nervousness, the nightly check-ins. Joe was beginning to feel desperate and cornered. It was only a matter of time before his older brother saw through his lies and told on him again, started it all over. Only a matter of time before Joe was forced to see a doctor, to be told what he feared all along: that he was fine, average, normal, nothing special, nothing unique, a brawn who'd lost his strength. A nothing. 

            Thursday night the weeks of restricting, of starving and vomiting and pills and exercise caused a coup of Joe's body: he had his first binge. 

            It happened after dinner. He had finished throwing up and, dizzy, stood at the sink rinsing out his mouth when suddenly he was seized by a desire, a biological _need _for food: his mouth was desperate for something to chew, to bite on, to fill his mouth, swallow and digest. Joe, longing to resist, stumbled out of the bathroom and leaned against his wall taking deep breaths, only to find himself racing out the door to the hall down the stairs to the kitchen seeking needing desperate for food, throwing open the refrigerator and finding a container of ice cream, barely opened, grabbing a spoon and the container and racing back to his room, locking his door and the bathroom one and eating, eating eating shoving it in despite the cold and the massive headache, breaking down and sobbing through it as he felt his stomach fill, lurching in protest to the assault, chasing the last of the frozen dessert into the corners of the carton and, upon finishing, racing to the bathroom, turning on the shower to prevent his brother from hearing, and spending the next half-hour with his finger down his throat, vomiting the contents back up, finally laying on the floor and sobbing when it was done. 

            But this too, went unheard.

***

            _This can not go unpunished_. 

            Joe lay curled in a fetal position on his bed, his body trembling and weak after the terrible assault on his body, his throat sore, his stomach still rolling, his mouth tasting of regurgitated vanilla. 

            _You lost control, lost it terribly, and it is not enough to vomit or take pills. You need something more, something new, something more intense. _

            The younger Hardy, still unsteady, got to his feet and made his way across the room to his computer, taking a deep breath and settling himself before clicking the bright blue "e" and pulling up the internet. He remembered the night he'd called the pharmacy about diet pills, the pharmacy he now visited loyally to purchase the bottles he kept hidden from his parents, friends, brother. 

            No matter. He needed something that would help him with these new issues, with the vomiting. But what? Did anything like that exist?

            Joe went to a search engine and paused, thinking, then typed in "vomit+aid" and clicked 'search,' selecting the first link that loaded on the screen, squinting at the odd name. 

            "Ipecac," he murmured, and wrote it down on a piece of paper to take to the pharmacy with him. 

***

Author's note: Never, I repeat, NEVER use ipecac to aid you in throwing up (while we're at it, never, I repeat, NEVER force yourself to throw up!). Ipecac can KILL you after ONE USE. It is used on children or adults who are poisoned to induce vomiting, and then only if _not_ vomiting would kill them as easily as ipecac could. I wrote it in because it is, on occasion, used by those with eating disorders, and those fortunate enough to survive its effects often suffer heart or esophagus damage. Take care of yourselves. 


	19. Hitting the Fan

"Could you not stare at me?"

Frank felt heat creeping up into his face and looked down at his bowl of soup, mumbling an apology. The brothers were eating dinner alone that night: Gertrude had gone home, Fenton had gone to meet a client, and their mother had gone to a political meeting, leaving Frank in charge of getting Joe dinner and watching him eat, which he was, eyes locked fast on his brother, slowly churning and churning the soup in his bowl, cutting the vegetables in his salad, slicing the bread into miniscule pieces and rolling them into balls of dough and dunking them into the broth.

"Sorry," the elder Hardy sighed.

The two went back to eating, an uncustomary silence and tension hanging between them.

"Any plans for the night?" Joe asked, trying to keep things casual.

Frank nodded. "Callie's coming over. We're gonna watch a movie."

"Why here?"

"Mom and Dad aren't home—"

"Is it because of me?"

The elder Hardy sighed and took a drink of water. "No."

"Mom and Dad don't want me to be alone."

Frank bit back his _I _don't want you to be alone and said "Her parents her home. We can be here, uninterrupted."

Joe forced a knowing smile; Frank rolled his eyes.

"No comment."

"I'll stay out of your way."

"Sounds good."

Joe went back to eating, draining the bowl and shoving the bread in.

_It's too easy,_ Frank thought uneasily. _He gives in too easily. He hasn't gained weight, still fights about food, but all the same, something's wrong. He's up to something._

"Have you noticed the toilet's have been clogging lately?"

Joe raised his eyebrows. "Not really. Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Is this the kind of thing to talk about over dinner?"

Frank grinned. "It's the only time I have you to myself."

"Great, so now you're trying to seduce me with toilet talk."

The two laughed a bit, then Frank returned to watching his brother eat while trying not to be obvious about it.

"I'll see you later," Joe said a few minutes later, clearing his things and quickly disappearing upstairs.

"Wait—" Frank started, but just then the doorbell rang; he hesitated, then moved to the back door.

"Hey babe," Callie greeted him, leaning up to give him a kiss. "How're you? What's wrong?"

Frank shook his head. "No, I'm fine, just thinking."

"Joe?"

"Let's not talk about it."

"All righty," she said, coming in and shutting the back door. Frank took a deep breath and shut the door behind her, surprised that he was feeling relieved. Maybe, for an evening, Callie could take away the anxiety, the sadness, the worry, just for a night. The moment he felt it he felt a wave of anger at himself: why should he have a night of relief, if there was no such comfort for his brother?

****

Hitting the Fan

Joe was about to lock the doors when he heard the doorbell rang and, relieved that his brother would be permanently distracted, left the locks alone. Not eating was one thing: although lying came with it, it was something that was still in the open, up for scrutiny. He didn't like feeling this way, like he had something to hide, like he had to block out his family to keep them from hearing.

His brother had made him nervous, not just in the way he'd watched him eat, but in questioning the toilets. Joe had thought it best not to use the same one, and been alternating between the downstairs and the upstairs, but this isn't what bothered him: it was the way Frank had said it, the scrutiny of it, as if he was watching for a reaction, as if he were interrogating him, interrogating _him_, Joe, his own brother! What, Frank needed a mystery, couldn't bear it without one, needed one so much he was willing to build one around his brother?

_Don't think such things, not about Frank, not about him. About yourself, _you're _the evil one, _you're _the one who's wrong, you're wrong just for thinking something like that about your own brother._

Joe shivered, knelt on the floor, lifted the toilet lid, steadied himself. He pulled the bottle from his pocket, the small brown vial he'd carried with him to school in order to vomit after lunch. He'd only used it once, two nights ago after dinner, and the intensity of the vomiting had frightened him, so he had refrained from using it. But he might as well now: he was alone, his brother was distracted, his parents were gone. If it would help him vomit, help him purge more, than it had to be done.

Joe opened the bottle and took a gulp, waited: nothing. He tried some more, swallowing it quickly, holding his nose to avoid the taste. Still nothing.

_Something needs to happen and fast the food is digesting you better get it out of you before the calories get in hurry up stick your fingers down if it's not going to work for you hurry up what are you thinking why can't you do anything right see you loser you hopeless loser—_

The bottle fell from Joe's hand. He barely made it to the toilet before the vomit exploded from his throat, ripping up from his stomach and pouring in to the toilet. The soup came up, whole pieces of chicken and carrots. Then the diet soda. Then the lettuce.

Then the blood.

Joe could not even catch his breath. Vomit after vomit ripped his frame, and the blood kept coming up darker and darker. Tears streamed from the corner of his eyes. He could not even scream for help.

_I didn't want this I never wanted to do this I didn't know _this_ would happen God help me someone anyone please help me…_

And then Joe's world went black.


	20. Putting Names to Symptoms

Laura Hardy was dizzy. The lights felt too bright, the smells of sterility made breathing difficult. How did they get here? They'd been trying, they had been, they'd been making their younger son eat and stopped him from exercising. How could he have been doing this, throwing up, disintegrating behind their backs? Why didn't they think to check, when he disappeared so quickly from meals, when he was still losing weight?

"I'm sorry."

Frank's voice jolted her out of her shock, and she turned to her elder son, slumped and weary with his head in his hands, his voice muffled but still escaping from between them.

"It's my fault. I should have checked on him. I should have talked to him more."

"Frank, this is not your fault," Fenton jumped in, making his way over to his son from the wall he'd been leaning against. He was clutching a psychology book in his hand, _The Anatomy of Anorexia,_ marked up with post-it notes. They'd bought it only hours before, sitting together, pouring over notes, discussing their son's symptoms realizing that they'd been avoiding the word "anorexia" because it just hadn't seemed possible that this illness could be inflicting their son. But reading more and more they knew that this is what Joe was facing—and that there was much going on beneath Joe's bright, handsome surface that none of them had been aware of.

"We are just as responsible," Laura said firmly.

"That's right," Fenton affirmed. "Your mother and I could have done more, been more observant…who knows. No one's to blame."

"I wouldn't even have gone upstairs," Frank whispered. "He would have been lying up there and I wouldn't even have gone to check—" the boy's voice broke and Laura saw his hands start to tremble.

"Oh, honey," she murmured, putting an arm around him and stroking his hair back. She knew how difficult this was, for her older son to sit back and watch his brother hurting himself and be helpless to stop it, he who had always looked out for his younger brother, defending and protecting him from the dark, the monsters in the closet, bullies at school, their enemies on cases—but Joe's own mind? Frank could try, was trying, had always _been _trying, but when it came down to it he was powerless. No one but his elder brother had ever been able to force the youngest Hardy into doing anything he didn't want to, and even Frank had confided in his mother on more than one occasion when he'd been unable to sway his brother's decisions.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hardy?"

The three looked up as a woman in a business suit approached them.

"That's us," Laura said, sitting straighter, bracing herself for news.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Barbara Ziv, I'm a counselor here. May I have a seat?"

"Of course. Do you have any information on our son?"

The doctor took a seat and crossed her legs, then opened a file she'd been carrying with her. Laura liked the look of her; she was confident and held herself well, but there was sympathy in her expression and youthful look about her, not at all the old stereotypical men she'd imagined.

"Your son is in a room at the moment. As far as I understand he's doing just fine. Dr. Roth should be along in a bit to explain farther, but in the meantime he's asked if you would allow me to evaluate your son's mental health."

Laura felt her heart leap at the world 'mental health,' picturing psyche wards, leather couches, emaciated women with cigarettes, straight jackets…not her smiling, bright, handsome younger son.

Please not her son.

"Are you all familiar with anorexia and bulimia?" Dr. Ziv asked.

The words jolted all three; too official. It couldn't be official.

"Yes," Fenton spoke finally. "And we're aware that Joe is suffering from them."

Frank drew a deep breath and sat back, clenching his hands in to fists. But looking at him, Laura would swear he was calm. He was certainly trying to be; as always. Frank, the strong one, the organized one, the model older child, never allowing his emotions to get the better of him, always patient and relaxed and ready for anything.

No one, Laura thought sadly, ever really knew what went on beneath that solid exterior but Joe. Whether this was because Frank chose to confide in his brother or Joe simply knew how to push secret buttons no one else could find Laura had never known; but it had been clear, since they were toddlers, that her elder son adored his younger brother. It had been Joe who had drawn the shyer, quieter Frank into groups of other children, Joe who had been quick to stand up to bullies, Joe who knew when Frank needed to be touched or hugged or comforted, Joe who was never denied entrance into his brother's room, into the darker and more turbulent parts of himself.

And Frank had returned all this by being the steady, calming presence the more emotional Joe so often needed, the older brother who had defended him from the unfairness of the bigger world he walked in to first, the older brother who never went too far ahead but lulled behind to wait for his younger sibling, the pair so intertwined that she knew would not, _could _not, ever be the same without the other.

_Why am I thinking that? _How _could I think that? Joe's here, he's getting help, we all know what we're facing now, we'll help him, we'll get him through this._

"I'll be frank," Dr. Ziv said, bringing Laura back from her musings. "From what I understand, your son is about twenty pounds below a normal, healthy body weight for someone of his age and height. That, combined with the use of Ipecac, his admission of throwing up his food, and his firm denial about there being a problem pretty much requires the hospital to give him a psychiatric evaluation."

"What will you do?" Frank asked.

"Just talk to him. Ask him questions about his body, how he feels about it. Watch his responses. See if his behavior points toward an eating disorder and depression. The two go hand in hand."

"And…" Laura asked, amazed at the calmness of her voice, "if he does?"

"Then we'll see about admitting him for a few weeks, to do intensive therapy and have his meals monitored. With your permission, of course. All this needs to be done through you."

Laura looked at Fenton over her older son's head. The two held each other's gaze for a moment; Fenton slowly nodded, and Laura turned back to the doctor.

"Do what you have to," she finally said.

Frank rose suddenly and disappeared out from the waiting room door and down the hall; Fenton handed her the book he'd been clutching harder than he'd realized and quickly followed his elder son.

_Oh Joe_, Laura thought, shaking the doctor's hand and thanking her, _don't you realize by killing yourself, you're starving Frank of _you?

****

Frank's Guilt

Frank walked into the men's room, bent over the sink, filled his hands with water, and splashed his face, then rested his palms flat on the porcelain and tried to catch his breath. He was furious with himself, first of all for letting it get this far, and second for not being able to control himself enough to hear out everything the doctor might say.

_It's words, that's all Hardy, just names for the behavior your brother's been exhibiting what you can't handle that? You can't handle the fact that you've been in just as much denial as Joe, that you've been weak in trying to help him, that you should have had the sense to check on him after meals? That if Callie hadn't been there you wouldn't even have thought to check on him? That the person you love the most is killing himself and it's all your—_

"Easy son," his father's voice came from behind him, and Frank came back to awareness realizing he was on his knees before the sink fighting for breath, terror suddenly seizing his lungs and threatening to send bile into his throat. "Relax. Frank, relax. It's all right." Fenton's hands were on his shoulders, rubbing slowly, and Frank sucked in a deep breath and stood up, composing himself.

"I'm all right," he murmured, "I'm all right now. Sorry. I'm a little…I don't know…shaky. Freaked out."

Fenton nodded and patted his son's back. "Delayed reaction."

"Do you have to put a label on _everything_?" Frank shot, shaking off his father's hand. "Why do we have to classify it all, huh? To make it neater, prettier, able to fit the psychology charts? Is that why we have to give Joe these names? So they have something to circle on the admittance chart? Does anyone even care that he's a person, who needs to be with people who care about him, not some hospital where they'll force feed him fat and pills and say it's all fine?"

Fenton set his jaw and ran a hand through his hair. "Frank," he said calmly, "I know you're upset. And if I know you at all you're angry at yourself for not doing more—" he glanced over, saw his son flinch, "and if you want to yell and scream at me that's fine, if it'll help you. But don't act like your mother and I don't care about him just as much as you do, or that we don't want the best for him. We want both, you know that."

Frank's shoulders slumped; he sighed and crossed his arms.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm…you're right. Blaming myself. Which I _should_! Dad, I've known there was a problem longer than anyone, and somehow I just let it go!"

"So you've done nothing?" Fenton almost snapped. "You've said nothing, you've never confronted him, you've never asked him about nutrition, you've never gotten angry or tried to show him how he was wrong, you've never gone to talk to the Coach, you've never told us anything about his pills or walking or wrestling? Is that right?"

Frank sighed, recognizing the all-to-familiar logic he'd seemed to have inherited from his father. "No. But—"

"But what? What could you have done that your mother and I didn't? Forced him to eat? We did that. Stopped him from wrestling and exercising? We did that too. Gone and picked up psychology books? That's what your mother and I were doing when we went out tonight. Yes, we should have checked on him after meals. Maybe we should have forced him into therapy already. But Frank, you and I both know that Joe was born stubborn, and this disease makes him all the more so. He's seventeen, son. We can't baby him. He's made his own choices, and he'll have to face their consequences."

The elder Hardy boy looked away, wondering how it was possible that only a few hours ago he was going to watch a movie with his girlfriend and try to put all this out of his head. How could he, when his brother never did, when his brother never _could_, when he was so sick and obviously caught up in such self-hatred that he'd force his body to go hungry, to push itself to the end of its endurance, to give up the food it needed to stay healthy?

_I should call Callie,_ he thought, sighing. She'd wanted to come with him, but he'd asked her not simply because he wanted to be alone, needed that time to himself before his parents arrived at the Emergency Room. In truth he'd also believed that he needed to be punished with solitude for trying to use her to forget about his brother for awhile, while Joe was upstairs vomiting blood and blacking out on the bathroom tile.

"Dad…" Frank trailed off, not knowing how to tell his father, or anyone for that matter, the swirl of emotions going on inside him. Only Joe would know, would understand, would know what to say, would be able to help him sort through them.

But Joe…

Fenton put an arm around his son's shoulders and squeezed, hard. "I know son," he murmured. "Come on, let's get back and see what your mother has to say."

Frank nodded, new determination seeping in to him with the warmth from his father's arm.

_I've never let anything separate us before, brother, _he thought to himself, _and I won't let this either. I won't lose you._

And if you do? Frank asked himself, _if this is the one fight you're sure to lose?_

The elder Hardy boy walked straighter as he approached his mother, feeling the grip on his emotions tightening.

_Then I'll do whatever it takes to follow him, _he answered himself. __


	21. Frank's Guilt

Frank walked into the men's room, bent over the sink, filled his hands with water, and splashed his face, then rested his palms flat on the porcelain and tried to catch his breath. He was furious with himself, first of all for letting it get this far, and second for not being able to control himself enough to hear out everything the doctor might say.

_It's words, that's all Hardy, just names for the behavior your brother's been exhibiting what you can't handle that? You can't handle the fact that you've been in just as much denial as Joe, that you've been weak in trying to help him, that you should have had the sense to check on him after meals? That if Callie hadn't been there you wouldn't even have thought to check on him? That the person you love the most is killing himself and it's all your—_

"Easy son," his father's voice came from behind him, and Frank came back to awareness realizing he was on his knees before the sink fighting for breath, terror suddenly seizing his lungs and threatening to send bile into his throat. "Relax. Frank, relax. It's all right." Fenton's hands were on his shoulders, rubbing slowly, and Frank sucked in a deep breath and stood up, composing himself.

"I'm all right," he murmured, "I'm all right now. Sorry. I'm a little…I don't know…shaky. Freaked out."

Fenton nodded and patted his son's back. "Delayed reaction."

"Do you have to put a label on _everything_?" Frank shot, shaking off his father's hand. "Why do we have to classify it all, huh? To make it neater, prettier, able to fit the psychology charts? Is that why we have to give Joe these names? So they have something to circle on the admittance chart? Does anyone even care that he's a person, who needs to be with people who care about him, not some hospital where they'll force feed him fat and pills and say it's all fine?"

Fenton set his jaw and ran a hand through his hair. "Frank," he said calmly, "I know you're upset. And if I know you at all you're angry at yourself for not doing more—" he glanced over, saw his son flinch, "and if you want to yell and scream at me that's fine, if it'll help you. But don't act like your mother and I don't care about him just as much as you do, or that we don't want the best for him. We want both, you know that."

Frank's shoulders slumped; he sighed and crossed his arms.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm…you're right. Blaming myself. Which I _should_! Dad, I've known there was a problem longer than anyone, and somehow I just let it go!"

"So you've done nothing?" Fenton almost snapped. "You've said nothing, you've never confronted him, you've never asked him about nutrition, you've never gotten angry or tried to show him how he was wrong, you've never gone to talk to the Coach, you've never told us anything about his pills or walking or wrestling? Is that right?"

Frank sighed, recognizing the all-to-familiar logic he'd seemed to have inherited from his father. "No. But—"

"But what? What could you have done that your mother and I didn't? Forced him to eat? We did that. Stopped him from wrestling and exercising? We did that too. Gone and picked up psychology books? That's what your mother and I were doing when we went out tonight. Yes, we should have checked on him after meals. Maybe we should have forced him into therapy already. But Frank, you and I both know that Joe was born stubborn, and this disease makes him all the more so. He's seventeen, son. We can't baby him. He's made his own choices, and he'll have to face their consequences."

The elder Hardy boy looked away, wondering how it was possible that only a few hours ago he was going to watch a movie with his girlfriend and try to put all this out of his head. How could he, when his brother never did, when his brother never _could_, when he was so sick and obviously caught up in such self-hatred that he'd force his body to go hungry, to push itself to the end of its endurance, to give up the food it needed to stay healthy?

_I should call Callie,_ he thought, sighing. She'd wanted to come with him, but he'd asked her not simply because he wanted to be alone, needed that time to himself before his parents arrived at the Emergency Room. In truth he'd also believed that he needed to be punished with solitude for trying to use her to forget about his brother for awhile, while Joe was upstairs vomiting blood and blacking out on the bathroom tile.

"Dad…" Frank trailed off, not knowing how to tell his father, or anyone for that matter, the swirl of emotions going on inside him. Only Joe would know, would understand, would know what to say, would be able to help him sort through them.

But Joe…

Fenton put an arm around his son's shoulders and squeezed, hard. "I know son," he murmured. "Come on, let's get back and see what your mother has to say."

Frank nodded, new determination seeping in to him with the warmth from his father's arm.

_I've never let anything separate us before, brother, _he thought to himself, _and I won't let this either. I won't lose you._

And if you do? Frank asked himself, _if this is the one fight you're sure to lose?_

The elder Hardy boy walked straighter as he approached his mother, feeling the grip on his emotions tightening.

_Then I'll do whatever it takes to follow him, _he answered himself. __

****

Treatment

"I'm going to recommend that your son stay here a minimum of three weeks."

Frank felt his nerves jar: his parents similarly jumped.

"_Weeks_?" Laura gasped.

"That's right," Dr. Ziv said. "Our intensive impatient program is three weeks. We have to appeal to the insurance company, of course, but your son meets our qualifications, both weight-wise and psychologically. From what you've told us, and from what Joe has admitted to, combined with his denial, matches our qualifications for anorexia nervosa. With bulimic tendencies."

Fenton took a deep breath, then sighed. "All right," he said softly. "Tell us the plan."

"We'll have your son moved to the eating disorder ward on the sixth floor. He'll be given three balanced meals plus snacks, with a caloric consumption determined by his nutritionist. His day will consist of group and individual therapy as well as nutrition and psychiatric sessions twice a week. He'll be medicated for depression, as determined by his psychiatrist. We'll work with him on exercise issues, food myths, body image, and his other symptoms, as well as insure that he gets back to a healthy weight and stops purging. Provided he's compliant, that is. If he's not…we'll put him on contract, and on supplements, and if he still resists treatment…well, let's think positively for now."

"He'll…we'll be able to visit right?" Laura asked.

"Of course. Every Sunday we have visiting hours. Plus, there will be family therapy sessions twice a week."

The doctor went on to explain the treatment process, issues focused on in therapy, the duration of his stay, health insurance—things that Frank simply couldn't focus on because he was suddenly feeling sick again. Joe wasn't coming home: this was the bottom line. He'd have to stay here, on a _psychiatric floor_, and be essentially force-fed.

What was _happening_? Was this the same brother who was so confident he could be almost cocky, the same brother who had eyed girls with appreciation, flirted and grinned and charmed his way through life? The brother who had a passion and zest and emotional range that left the elder Hardy boy stunned in admiration in the wake of his brightness. Joe had taken on the world as Frank never could, pausing only long enough to grip his brother's hand and pull him along. And Frank had gone, blinded by admiration, envious of his brother's emotion, his ability to sweep through and leave the world stunned. His younger brother could not…could _not _be…

_But he is_, Frank thought, with his customary logic and discipline, _he is anorexic. He is bulimic. He is depressed. And he will be staying here and getting help for that. He won't want it, but I'll convince him, we'll convince him, we'll get him through it. We'll do it together, like we always have. I can pull him along too._

"Dad," Frank said, interrupting the psychiatrist's spiel. "I'm going to see him."

Fenton, his features drawn and weary, shook his head. "Us first," he said firmly.

"But—"

"Maybe you can convince him when we can't."

"Fenton," Laura sighed, "no 'good cop bad cop.' Not with our son."

But Fenton and Frank held each other's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.

_He's grown up too fast,_ Fenton thought sadly, seeing a wisdom in his often unreadable elder child that never ceased to amaze him. _He shouldn't have to be Joe's father. Not now, of all times when he needs parents…_

When they both need parents.


	22. Denial

Fenton took a deep breath as he and Laura entered their son's hospital room, conscious of their perturbed elder son behind him. The group had decided that it would be best for his parents to confront Joe first, to inform him of the steps being taken for the good of his health, and then to let Frank come in and calm him down afterward.

The detective felt a twinge of envy at this thought, that it was not himself or his wife bringing their son consolation but their eldest son. But that was how it had always been, and probably how it always would be.

"Honey," Laura started, approaching the curled, frail form on the bed. "How are you?"

Fenton swallowed as he took in his younger son's appearance: shadows beneath the eyes, cheek bones beginning to emerge, exhaustion plain in his features, his hair tangled and sweat coated. He was watching his parents listlessly, and didn't offer any sort of greeting.

"I'm fine Mom," Joe finally muttered, his voice flat.

"You spoke with Dr. Ziv?" Fenton asked, and saw the flash of anger in his son's eyes; not mere anger, but _rage_.

"Yes, I spoke with Dr. Ziv," Joe snapped, moving to sit up, then closing his eyes and resting back, obviously weak. "Which I didn't need to. She seemed to feel that everything was exactly as she had anticipated, which—"

"Means you have an eating disorder," Fenton said firmly, pulling a chair up beside the bed for his wife, then taking one of his own.

"Oh, _bullshit_—"

"Joe," Laura warned, sitting beside her husband and visibly bracing herself. "We spoke to her after your evaluation, just a few minutes ago. She said you're exhibiting classic denial. She told us earlier you are twenty pounds below a healthy body weight. Plus Frank told us about finding you, and the Ipecac—"

"That doesn't mean anything! One time, _one time, _I took some syrup to make me throw up, not because of weight, but because I didn't feel well—"

"The toilet's have been clogging," Fenton jumped in, ignoring the glare his son gave him upon being interrupted, "you want to explain that?"

"Roots!"

"Vomit," Laura murmured. "When the plumber comes next week, I bet that's what he's going to find in them."

"Probably, because I was sick tonight, and—"

"You're still losing weight," Fenton said, "even after we've been making you eat. And you're not exercising, so that food's going somewhere, isn't it?"

"I have a fast metabolism!" Joe shot.

Laura sat back slowly. "You're still taking pills, aren't you?"

Joe looked from his father to his mother, glaring and setting his jaw; all the answer they needed.

Fenton flipped open _The Anatomy of Anorexia _and turned to a page they'd book marked earlier. "Signs of an eating disorder," he read, keeping his voice casual but firm, "rapid weight loss, _unnecessary_ weight loss, lying about food, hiding food, skipping meals, obsessive exercise, isolating from friends and family, lying to friends and family, the use of diet pills and/or laxatives and/or _Ipecac_, overly concerned about appearance, reluctance to eat in front of others, distorted body image, denial about symptoms, depression." The detective looked at his younger son, taking in the slightly paler face, the slightly trembling fingers quickly shoved beneath the sheet.

"Honey," Laura said gently, touching her son's shoulder. "That's _you_."

"It is _not_!" Joe fumed, struggling to a sitting position. "I eat fine, I haven't been exercising and when I was it was for _wrestling_, which makes it _necessary _weight loss. I was overweight when I started, the Coach told me that—"

"You were overweight for your _category_, not for your body type—"

"Overweight is overweight! And I don't skip meals—"

"You never eat breakfast," Laura snapped, "and from what Frank says, lunch either…"

"Have I not eaten with you, every night? You watching me?"

"But you've been making yourself throw up, and taking pills Joe!" Fenton almost shouted. "Don't play naïve with us! We're all trained to observe people, do you think we can't watch our own son deteriorate?"

"So that's it?" Joe said savagely, "this is just another job for you, _father_, a challenge? Bored without a mystery? Your greatest challenge yet, your psychotic son—"

"_Joseph_," Fenton snapped, "that's not going to work. Not on me. You think this has been easy, watching you waste away, listening to you lie and avoid our questions and refuse to eat? Son, it's not."

The two glared each other down for a moment; Laura saw the need to intervene.

"We're not trying to punish you," she soothed, "and we're not trying to make you feel that you've done something wrong. But you need some help, and we're going to get you some. We're not going to let you ruin your health."

Joe leaned slowly back on his bed, still glaring. "You can't keep me here."

"But we can," Laura said, her voice firm. "And we will. We're signing you in for the recommended time they've recommended—"

"What's _that?"_ Joe's eyes were suddenly widening; the anger was fading to fear.

"Three weeks."

"Three—you can't be serious! You can't keep me here if I don't want to be--"

"You're not eighteen," Fenton pointed out. "You can't make your own healthcare decisions."

"You can't possibly…Mom, Dad, come on, you don't really think--"

His parents simply looked at him, watching their son's anger turn slowly to panic.

"What does Frank have to say?" he finally asked.

"He'll be in afterward. He can tell you," Laura murmured.

Joe slammed his fist in to his pillow, lay down, and turned his back on them.

"I want you go leave," he hissed. "I don't want to see you right now."

"Joseph, you may be mad, but you will respect us," Fenton began.

"The way you respect _me_, Dad? And what I want? What about school? What will I tell Vanessa? My friends? That I'm locked in a psyche ward for no reason?"

"That you're getting treatment for an eating disorder—"

"That _I don't have_!"

"They'll help you understand--"

"What, that I'm crazy?"

"That you need some help."

"They can make me believe anything they want, can't they?"

"Joe…" Fenton started.

"Get out."

"Honey…" Laura tried.

"Get _out_!"

The two glanced at each other; Fenton nodded and motioned toward the door.

"When you're calm we can talk more," Fenton called as they moved to the hall.

"I want to see Frank."

Fenton felt another stab of jealousy, accompanied with a glimmer of hope. Frank might be able to reach his brother, to set things right. If he couldn't…

Fenton wouldn't think of that.

It would mean giving up.


	23. On the Ward

"You're new?"

Joe glanced away from the tray they'd placed before him to a young girl, too thin, across the table from him.

"When did you come in?"

He swallowed, hard. "Last night. Late."

"First meal here?" another girl, this one more average looking, asked from beside him.

"Yeah."

"We can tell," the thin one smiled. "It's rough of first, but it's okay. You'll see. The first few days are rough is all."

Joe glanced around at the faces at the table; kind girls, looking at him encouragingly.

_Has everyone here been brainwashed? _He thought dizzily, looking down at his breakfast tray: a bagel with cream cheese, eggs, an apple, and orange juice. _The expect me to eat this? Me, who never has breakfast, who doesn't need it, who _shouldn't _have it? I don't belong here, among all these girls. I don't know what people are thinking, I don't know what my _parents _are thinking—_

And Frank. Frank most of all.

Despite his promise that they would talk before departing, the confusion of the late-night transfer had left little time for him to say goodbye to his family. His mother had been teary; his father, solemn. His elder brother had looked sadder than Joe had ever seen him before, hugging him almost uncertainly, murmuring an apology, his hand lingering on his brother's protruding spine, trembling as he withdrew.

Some part of Joe that had not yet surrendered to his illness knew his brother meant well, knew that Frank was doing what he thought was best. But part of him resented it, wanted Frank to take him home, to explain to their parents that Joe needed to be with his brother. Although Frank had infuriated him by going to their parents and his Coach, he nonetheless wanted to be with him, to spend as much time together as possible before Frank walked out of his life for good.

_The question is, why would Frank want to spend time with _you?_ Someone as smart as him, as kind as him, you think you have anything to offer? What use would he have for you?_

"…name?"

Joe jolted back to reality and blushed, realizing all eyes were on him. "Huh?"

"What's your name?" the thin girl asked again.

"Oh…Joe. Hardy."

"Hi, Joe. I'm Veronica."

"I'm Marissa," the healthy girl beside him said.

The girls around him introduced themselves, all smiles and support, then began to pick their way through their trays.

"Do you know how mealtimes work?" Marissa asked.

"No," Joe mumbled.

"Eat as much as you can. When you don't finish you'll be given a supplement, like Ensure or Deliver, which you have to drink. If you don't drink it by the time meal time support therapy is over, it's considered non-compliance. If you're not compliant they may kick you out, or else there's feeding tubes. It depends on whether you're willing to recover or not. You are willing, aren't you?"

Joe felt his face flush and looked down at his tray. "I'm not sick," he muttered.

Eyes turned toward him, then glanced at each other; at that moment, a counselor arrived.

"May I see your tray?" she asked the younger Hardy boy. Joe leaned back in to his chair so she could get a look. She marked a paper in a manila folder and placed it beside his tray; Joe saw his name written on the tab at the top.

"Do you know the mealtime rules?" she asked him gently.

"Marissa," he gestured to the girl beside him, "told me about supplements and all."

"That's fine, but there's also discussion rules. No talking about the meal, calories, weights, or therapy. No numbers at all here. We don't calorie count and we don't discuss meal plans, weight gain, etc. You'll learn more when you meet with your nutritionist later. In the meantime, I'm Vanessa, one of the counselors here, and I'll be running the group therapy after the meal. If you need anything…"

But Joe was no longer paying attention. Vanessa. Her name was Vanessa. What was Vanessa thinking now? What was she _going _to think, what were _all _his friends going to think, when they found out he was here? His family wouldn't lie, that was clear: they'd tell everyone he was in treatment for an eating disorder. They'd tell them that he was sick—they'd tell them all lies!

"I'm not eating this," Joe announced, pushing his tray toward Veronica. The girls around him stopped eating and glanced toward the counselor.

"Joe," Vanessa said calmly, "that may be triggering for some."

"Triggering?"

"It makes us want to go back to our symptoms," Veronica said softly.

"Symptoms?"

"Our eating disorder," Marissa clarified.

"Oh. Well…sorry. But I don't need this. I don't belong here."

"Then just sit and wait," Vanessa said firmly. "And you'll be given your supplements."

"Supplement_s_?"

"That's right."

Joe felt suddenly dizzy, and it wasn't all from hunger. This room, with it's white linoleum and white walls felt too close, the girls were too close, his tray was too close, and he was conscious not only of being the only boy, but of the sharp loneliness at being separated from his friends and family.

He sat quietly throughout the meal, watching the others eat and ignoring his own tray, gradually conscious of the uneasiness of his stomach and the soreness of his throat, raw with the violence of the purge the previous night.

At the end of the meal a slender blonde woman approached him, smiling and holding a folder.

"You're Joe Hardy?"

He nodded.

"My name's Tamara, and I'm in charge of setting up admittance appointments. I need to take you to meet with your treatment team now. Have you finished?"

"He needs supplements," Vanessa said, rising and moving in the direction of the kitchen, where the trays were prepared and brought out on metal racks, labeled with patient's names and their meal choices.

"We can take it with us," Tamara said with a smile, "unless you want to drink them here."

"I'm not drinking them," Joe muttered, getting to his feet and wishing for a change of clothes; he was still wearing the long-sleeved white t-shirt and jeans from the night before, both of which were too big on him.

"That's considered non-compliance." Tamara's smile faded.

"It's not when you're not sick."

She nodded gravely as Vanessa emerged with a large red plastic cup filled to the brim with thick, off-white liquid.

"I'm not drinking that," Joe snapped when she reached to hand it to him.

"That's—"

"Non-compliance, right. Write it down or something. I don't care. I don't need to be here."

The two women exchanged a look, then Tamara motioned for Joe to follow her out to the main hall. She explained the layout of the ward, the 'living room' where everyone could watch TV, the nurse's station, the medication window, where meds were given twice a day, the board that indicated what level you were—the lower the level, the less privileges. 

"You're on level three right now," she informed him. "That means you're not on any form of bed-rest, but you're restricted to the ward. If you continue to lose weight and are non-compliant you may be dropped down to partial bed-rest; if you're continually non-compliant, you'll be dropped to full bed-rest. That means that your doctors come to you, and you can't attend group sessions." She gave him a somewhat severe look. "It makes life pretty tough."

"And being here isn't already?" Joe mumbled.

She ignored him. "If you're compliant however, you'll move up to level four. You have more freedom with your meal choices then, and you can go out to eat." Tamara paused as Joe put a hand to his head, fighting a wave of dizziness. "Are you all right?"

The younger Hardy brother nodded weakly.

"I'll take you to meet your therapist now." She said gently, turning and making her way down the hall past the nurse's station. Joe drew a breath, steadied himself, and made his way after her, all the while thinking _Frank…why?_


	24. Jamie

There was another boy on the ward.

He appeared in the doorway of Joe's room after Joe had met with his nutritionist, the last appointment of the day. They informed him that he would begin group therapy tomorrow; he had missed both the morning and afternoon sessions. Each group was about two hours and focused on one topic: family interaction, separation issues, body image, nutrition counseling, social interaction, etc. In between there was free time; time to relax, to think, to discuss what you've learned, and to rest.

The boy appeared in Joe's room as the younger Hardy boy was resting, having refused his lunch and the supplements. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, looking Joe up and down, waiting to be asked to come in.

"Need something?" he asked, offering a smile.

"Just wanted to say hi," the boy said, smiling back. "I didn't think another boy would be here."

"You want to come in?"

The boy nodded and crossed the room to the empty single bed, sitting and letting his legs dangle. Joe looked him over, estimating that he must be about twelve; he couldn't be more than 5'1," and was so small he could still be shopping in the children's section.

"I'm Jamie," the boy said.

"I'm Joe."

"That's funny. We're both here and we're both J."

Joe smiled and sat up, facing the other bed. "How long have you been here?"

"About a month."

"A _month_?"

"I came in on bed rest. Level One."

"What level are you on now?"

"Three."

"Same as me."

The boy just grinned. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Good! I'm sixteen."

Joe felt his nerves jar with shock. "Six_teen_?"

Jamie flushed and looked down at the floor. "I know," he said softly, "I don't look it."

"I'm sorry," the younger Hardy murmured, "that was rude."

"No, nothing to be sorry about. I know." He looked up and met Joe's gaze. "I look like I'm twelve, but I have the bones of a fifty-year old, do you know that? I'll probably get osteoporosis soon."

"You can get that from…what, not eating?"

Jamie nodded solemnly. "No food, no calcium, no bones. It's why I couldn't grow too." The boy sighed and rubbed his bony arms. "I've been sick a long time," he said sadly. "Is this your first treatment?"

"I…guess so. I'm not sick though."

The boy frowned and looked him over. "You're too thin, you know that?"

Joe rolled his eyes and lay on his back, turning his head to the boy. He tried to keep it casual, but he was feeling dizzy again. "No, I guess I don't."

"They put me here twice before I'd admit to being sick."

"_Twice_? How many times have you been here?"

"This is my fourth time in in-patient."

"_Fourth_?" Joe propped himself up on his elbow, raising his eyebrows. "They let you come back?"

"They have too," the boy sighed. "I need it."

Both fell silent, looking away, suddenly shy.

Jamie glanced at his watch. "I've got therapy. But it was nice meeting you. They'll probably move us in together in a day or two. They're pressed for space, especially as it gets closer to winter like this. Lots of us get depressed, come home from college…they get kinda flooded."

Joe bit his lip. "I never realized…how many sick people there were in Bayport. I mean, some of the girls look totally normal."

"Yeah," Jamie sighed, "it's hard to tell. With some. It's sad, because you know…it's acceptable, in a way. Being thin, I mean. Dieting, losing weight…everyone does. It's like a club. And no one's in your head, so they can't tell when it's taken to an extreme." Jamie offered a sad smile and moved to the doorway.

"See you," Joe called. The boy hesitated, then turned and looked straight in to Joe's eyes.

"I wish," he said softly, "that I'd been more responsive on my first two treatments. That I hadn't kept denying that I needed help."

The younger Hardy looked away, knowing what he was implying. "I'm sorry you didn't."

"Joe."

Joe reluctantly met the boy's gaze.

"Don't repeat my mistake, okay?"

Joe didn't answer; Jamie watched for a response, sighed, and disappeared down the hall.


	25. A Breaking Bond

"Special delivery."

Joe looked up, startled, as Frank appeared in the doorway, a suitcase in one hand, a nurse beside him.

"You have half-an hour, then it's dinner time Joe," she said firmly. "It is not optional." She spun on her heel and made her way back down the hall.

"She's happy," Frank muttered, turning to his younger brother. "Can I come in?" he asked, a little shyer than usual. Joe nodded, struggling to remain aloof; he was still angry, but all he wanted to do was leap up, throw his arms around his older brother, and beg to be taken home. But the younger Hardy had never groveled to anyone before and wasn't about to start with his elder brother.

Frank set the suitcase down on the floor at the end of the bed and took a seat on the vacant twin opposite his brother. Joe noticed that the elder Hardy had shadows under his eyes and his hair was unruly—not Frank's usual organized appearance.

"How're you doing?" Frank asked gently, worry darkening his brow, paling his complexion.

"I don't belong here," Joe said slowly. "And I don't want to be here. I want, _need_, out. Now."

"We can discuss it tonight," the elder boy sighed and ran a hand through his hair, reminding Joe of their father. "We have a family therapy session at seven."

"No one told me." Joe drew his thin legs up and crossed them beneath himself. "But then again, no one consults me about anything anymore."

The remark was meant to sting, and both brothers knew it; an uncustomary silence fell between them, until Frank looked at his younger brother, his expression suddenly sad.

"Joe…I know you're mad. And I guess you have a right to be. From your point of view, I went behind your back to tell a lie to your coach, I ratted you out to Mom and Dad, I called an ambulance when you didn't need it, and I supported our parents in signing you in. Is that accurate?"

Joe simply glared at his older brother.

"So that's accurate. Let me tell you my side: I saw you losing weight too fast and in an unhealthy way. I saw your _entire personality _change almost overnight—you began lying to me, to your friends, and to Mom and Dad. You became withdrawn and began taking diet pills, skipping meals, and isolating. You became irritable. You _collapsed_ from over-exercising, you had no sense of what you looked like, and where you used to be upbeat and energetic and enthusiastic your pessimistic, withdrawn, and…sad. Depressed, kiddo. I acted out of concern for you, brother, nothing else. No malice or resentment was involved. I _care_ about you Joe, so much, more than anyone else. You know that, right?"

The younger Hardy bit his lip and looked away, feeling himself blush, feeling the steel grip he had on his own self-hatred waver a little. His brother cared about him. He'd known it before he said it, but the little demon voice that always accompanied him had been firm that it was a lie, had hidden it under its constant ticker-tape of negative comments on Joe, his appearance, his personality, and above all, his very self, who he was and what he meant to others.

But Frank had disproved that, had, in an uncustomary fashion, shown his softer side, let Joe in on his fears and anxieties, and countered every point Joe could have made out of anger.

Realizing his brother was anxiously awaiting a response, the younger Hardy nodded slowly.

"I know," he murmured. "I know that, Frank. I just—"

The room swayed for Joe, turned sideways and slid toward the floor; seconds later, his brother's arms broke his fall off the edge of the bed, steadied him against his brother's sturdy chest, sat him up slowly and pressed him close as the room kept moving.

"It's okay, I've got you, you're okay," the elder Hardy murmured, his arms warm and strong, fighting off the constant cold of Joe's frail body, the periods of dizziness that left him disoriented. Joe reached up and wrapped his arms around his brother's torso, grateful for the closeness.

"Oh, Joe…what did you eat today? Anything?" Frank asked, his voice betraying the strength of his body by trembling ever so slightly.

"Dinner…" the younger Hardy murmured, "I'll have dinner, Frank, I will…promise…"

His older brother's hand smoothed his hair, moving along his scalp and pushing the blonde locks off the pale forehead.

"I can't believe you anymore," Frank finally said, his voice almost a whisper, far more gentle than Joe thought words that hurt that badly should be.


	26. Trapped

Joe sat with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, shivering uncontrollably. He'd been suddenly, acutely aware of not only cold, not only of isolation, but of the very real _fear _of both. The first was accompanied by the realization that he had not been warm in several weeks now, that he was constantly wearing long-sleeve shirts and extra jackets; the moment Frank had left, he'd opened his suitcase and pulled out his Bayport High sweatshirt. Being close to Frank had made him realize the difference between their bodies, not only in size, but in temperature.

The second fear was born of the isolation he felt at his brother's departure. Although Frank had hugged him goodbye a little longer than was necessary and promised a swift return with their parents at seven, Joe had nonetheless held his brother's arm as he'd left, as if hoping Frank would opt out of the session and simply stay by his side. His brother's presence had been comforting, allowing an escape from the ward, from the approaching dinner, from the voice that was now chanting insults.

And Frank's arms had driven the dizziness away, held him steady, firm but gentle, his voice soothing _I've got you, it's okay. I've got you._

Joe took a deep breath, startled to find it release as a half-sob.

_Weakling, pathetic little, make that BIG thing, disgusting and dirty and clinging so desperately to someone who's clean and pure, someone like your brother, you think he'll somehow make you a better person? You know nothing, you ARE nothing, or you will be when I'm done with you—_

A shiver rocked the younger Hardy's frame, and he got to his feet and made his way to the bathroom just inside the entryway to his unshared room, wanting to feel cold water on his face to jolt him out of his faults and back in to the skin he felt so separated from. He reached for the knob, twisting it sideways, and finding it locked. He tried again, twisting to various sides only to conclude that it was, indeed, locked tight.

Thinking they'd forgotten to open it when they moved him in, he left and walked to the nurse's station, knocking lightly on the door until the counselor from earlier, Vanessa, appeared.

"Yes?" she asked pleasantly.

"My bathroom door is locked," Joe said.

"That's right. It's supposed to be."

Shock jolted the young detective's nerves. "What?"

"You're on locked bathroom until you stop purging."

"I'm on _what_?"

"A counselor needs to accompany you," she explained, "until you begin gaining weight and your treatment team agrees you're allowed to use it without danger of purging."

"I have to have someone go to the bathroom with me like a two year old until…"

"Not _with _you, just wait outside the door to be sure you don't vomit your meals."

"This is…_bullshit_!" Joe shouted, slamming his fist against the wall of the nurse's station.

"Joe…"

"You can't keep me here!" he shouted to no one in particular, causing a chorus of heads to poke from doorways up and down the hallway. "You can't! I'm not sick, I don't need this, I don't need to be here! You can't just lock me up on a psyche ward and leave me! I'm seventeen years old, I can take care of myself!"

"Start acting like it," Vanessa said, not coldly or rudely, for she wasn't aiming to hurt: she was stating a fact. "Stop throwing a tantrum like a child would."

Joe turned from her and ran.

Down the hall, past several wide-eyed faces to the door leading to the stairs to the lower floors to the exit, out of this insanity not in his mind—none there!—but here, in this hospital, on this floor, in this room.

Locked.

Joe slammed against it, unable to move it, turned and tried the one beside it. Similarly locked. Frantic, he turned to the common room, where there were several large windows leading to the outside.

Barred.

The younger Hardy was trembling; is this how criminals felt when he and his father and his brother tracked them down? Is this how a prisoner feels, behind bars, all exits blocked to you, the world shunning you, you, safely packed and put away like a forgotten doll, one that did not give pleasure but fright in childhood? What had he done? What could he have possibly done to deserve this?

_Do you really have to ask yourself that?_

"No!" Joe shouted as Vanessa, accompanied by a host of other counselors and orderlies made their way down the hall toward them. He spun, ducked under the arm of an orderly, and easily outran the group down the hall to his bedroom where he slammed the door, flung himself forward, and collapsed, sobbing onto his bed.

_I have to get out, I have to get out of here, help me, please someone help me, you, you evil little voice thing, you're supposed to take care of me, help me, you help me, please help me, help…_

_You know what you need to do, _the voice seemed to whisper as Joe heard his door opened. _Non-compliance if your key. Just keep listening to me. Just keep following me. I'll lead you out._

Anyway I can.


	27. Going Under

The next two weeks were slow, painful, but Joe carried on along an undercurrent of grim triumph as his doctors, counselors, nutritionist and therapist, slowly gave up.

First there was the family session. Joe refused to speak to anyone during it, refused to respond to questions about his outburst, the skipped meals, his feelings about being there. His mother and father had been firm that the only way he was getting off the ward was to respond to treatment: and to them. Frank had seemed confused at first, getting more so as Joe's intention to stay silent continued, but slowly that confusion had receded to fear.

"Joe," he'd pleaded, interrupting his therapist's speech about denial, "please, brother, just say _something_."

But Joe stayed silent: through the group sessions, through his individual therapy, through the family sessions, through his nutrition and psychiatric appointments. At meals he refused all food, and when he did allow himself to eat he'd pick the lock on the faculty bathroom, sneak inside, and vomit it all up.

By the end of the week he'd been dropped from Level Three to Level Two—partial bed rest—and by the end of the weekend he was on Level One—full bed rest. He'd lost ten pounds in that week, the most he'd lost so far, and despite the pleadings of the counselors, his family, the girls on the floor, and Jamie, Joe was unwavering in his desire to get off the ward, anyway possible.

He was no longer allowed to participate in group sessions, nor walk to meals or his appointments. All was brought to him, meals he refused supplements he wouldn't touch therapists he wouldn't speak to doctors who brought him for weights and vitals at five a.m. before the others woke to get their own measured.

On Sunday, visiting day, Frank arrived alone. He obviously hadn't been sleeping and was beginning to look more slender himself. He sat on the edge of his brother's bed, took Joe's hand in his own, and spoke quietly about their Aunt, who had arrived to help run the house, and Vanessa, who was half-sick with worry and calling almost non-stop, and Callie, who was trying to organize their friends to make cards and such.

"Everyone's worried," he said, his eyes filling slowly. "But Joe, I'm _terrified_."

The younger Hardy had felt terribly guilty, sat up and embraced his brother and apologized softly, the two holding each other, talking little, throughout the next two hours, until Frank was ordered to leave so that Joe could have lunch, a lunch he hadn't touched.

How could he have known that Frank, six stories below, had walked out the hospital doors, made it to the van they'd once shared, only to break down and sob in the front seat?


	28. Unwanted News

"I'm releasing Joe," Dr. Ziv, announced, visibly bracing herself.

"You can't!" Frank, Fenton and Laura shouted at once.

"I'm sorry. I have no choice. He's resilient to treatment. He's been purging and skipping meals and supplements. He's non-compliant. There's nothing more we can do. Someone who wants to recover can take this spot."

The three were seated in the Doctor's office, eagerly awaiting what they had anticipated would be a bleak progress report; however, they had never expected such terrible news.

"But…" Laura's eyes filled with tears. "If he comes home like this, he'll just keep right on starving himself until…until…" her voice broke, and the strain of the past few months caught up with her. She lowered her head to her hands and sobbed. Fenton leaned forward and drew his wife into his arms, holding her tightly.

Frank felt his own eyes burning. He couldn't stand seeing his family this hurt, couldn't stand the pain they were all in.

Because of you, Joe. Godamnit, why can't you see it? I could almost hate you right now.

"I'm very, very sorry," the doctor said softly. "I do recommend that you put him in another treatment center, and keep him in them as long as you can, before Joe turns eighteen. Once he does that nothing can be done without his consent."

"How much weight has he lost while he's here?" Fenton said, his voice wavering only slightly.

"Sixteen pounds."

The three jolted; far more than he'd lost at home.

"We were trying to help him," Laura whispered, wiping her eyes and sitting up straighter.

"What about feeding tubes?" Fenton murmured.

"Dad!" Frank almost shouted.

"What do you want me to do Frank? Let him go on starving himself, vomiting it up?"

"We don't really believe in feeding tubes anymore, Mr. Hardy, not unless the patient is near death," Dr. Ziv explained.

"I see," the detective murmured, a bit too calmly, "so in a couple weeks, when my son is somewhere in the neighborhood of _fifty pounds below a normal body weight_, and so emaciated he can no longer walk, it would be all right to have him brought back, strapped to a bed, and tube-fed?"

"Fenton!" Laura cried.

"No, Laura, I'm trying to understand how these people can release my son when he's obviously so ill, as if they expect us to come up with some break through when that's what we've been paying _them _ to do, because obviously _we _haven't come up with anything that works!"

Fenton, in uncustomary violence, suddenly slammed his fist down on to the arm of his chair, got to his feet, and began pacing the office.

"Honey," Laura murmured, "please calm down."

"Calm down? Calm _down_? My son is ill and they're telling me that there's no help for him and you want me to calm _down_?"

"I didn't say there was no help," Dr. Ziv said firmly, fixing the detective with an authoritative stare, "but you have t understand, Mr. Hardy, when a patient is this convinced that there isn't a problem, they often are resilient to treatment. It's unfortunate, and I work against seeing it happen, but sometimes the patient needs to…bottom out, so to speak. Become so physically debilitated that they have no choice but to admit that there's a problem and accept treatment."

"And," Laura drew a deep breath, "what if they never accept it?"

"We don't need to discuss that—"

"Doctor, are you a mother?"

Dr. Ziv sighed and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. "Mrs. Hardy, I think we both know the answer to that question and since yes, I am a mother, I don't want to be the one to tell you."

Frank was acutely aware of the entire conversation, his instincts perked as if he were working a case, hoping for something—a fact, a slip, a look in the doctor's eye, some sign that this was not hopeless.

"Are there any…more intensive programs out there?" Laura went on quietly.

Dr. Ziv sighed. "Yes, there are specialized centers. The problem is most of them won't take men. It's a very new policy that we do. There's different issues between men and women, or so we have come to believe. Women are more conscious of how there body looks, while men are often more conscious of what it can do. That's why there's often more steroid abuse among men then women. In the case of anorexic males, there's a belief that losing the weight will allow them to do more. Like wrestling, for instance. But above all, it's a defense mechanism. It's almost a perverted way of the body caring for itself. The emotions, whatever they may be, have become too much for the mind to deal with, and so it switches its focus to food, to losing weight, all the while letting the patient believe that they are fixing the pain on the inside by eliminating more and more of the body on the outside."

"But what _pain _is this?" Fenton growled, "what, suddenly hurt my son so much that he couldn't deal with it? Why would he choose this? Just because of wrestling?"

Dr. Ziv placed a file on the table and looked, suddenly, sad. 

"Ask your son," she murmured. "He won't tell us."

Laura reached for her husband's arm and pulled him back toward her chair, rubbing her fingers along his hand soothingly.

"Frank," she said after a moment's hesitation, "has Joe…I don't want you to give anything away or betray his trust, but he has spoken to you. Has he said anything? Given you any hints?"

The elder Hardy brother, instincts still up, was exceedingly uncomfortable as he realized all eyes were on him, each pair hoping for an answer, hoping he'd produce some brilliant insight or secret, give the therapists something to work with, give his parents the much-needed hope they desired.

"No," he murmured, the word breaking something inside him: the knowledge of the gap, ever widening, between the brothers, as Joe drifted farther and farther into the abyss, unaware of Frank's desperation on the other shore.


	29. Part Three

Frank Hardy lay on his back watching the ceiling, trying hard to quell the violent swirl of emotions threatening to rise to his throat and eyes in sobs and tears.

Joe would be home tomorrow; two days after the doctor had announced his release. And although the elder Hardy had missed his brother terribly, he dreaded his arrival back at the house. Joe, smaller than ever, grimly triumphant—_"see? nothing's wrong with me Frank, they're letting me go!"_—the illness embedded in him deeper than ever.

The past two weeks had been extremely difficult on the Hardy family. Frank's Aunt Gertrude had moved in to help keep the house running, as Fenton and Laura were devoting any spare time to reading psychology books and contacting doctor friends for any and all information they could put together on their younger son's illness. Things had only gotten worse when it became obvious that Joe was not responding to treatment, nor did he have any intention of trying to make use of his time there.

Things had gotten progressively worse, as the younger Hardy continued to lose weight and withdrew more and more, speaking to no one—not his doctors, not the other patients, and not is parents. No one but Frank.

The elder Hardy boy sighed thinking of the conversations of the past few weeks, thinking of the previous Sunday's visit, Joe leaning into his embrace, saying little.

_"Brother, please, please say something. Tell me what you're thinking. Let me help you."_

_ "It's okay, Frank. It will be. Once I'm out of here, you'll see. Don't worry? Please?"_

Frank had been sickened by the depth of his brother's denial, even more sickened by the responsibility on his shoulders: Joe spoke to no one else, and since his brother was normally his confidant, it seemed that everyone was looking to the elder Hardy boy for some sort of miraculous insight.

_"Sometimes the patient needs to…bottom out, so to speak. Become so physically debilitated that they have no choice but to admit that there's a problem and accept treatment."_

What did that mean? What were they supposed to do then? Frank had never been one to sit back and let a problem fester without trying to stop it, and he certainly never allowed his younger brother to go on hurting without trying to ease his unhappiness.

But…what more could he do?

"Honey?"

Frank looked up, startled, as his mother opened the door to his room. "Hey, Mom."

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

Laura Hardy crossed the room and sat beside her elder son, pushing a few loose strands of hair off his forehead. "I had the toilet's checked out," she said wearily.

"And?"

"The pipes were filled with vomit. He's been alternating toilets, which is why they were all clogging. It's a mess."

Frank sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "That's great," he muttered, "that's just great."

Laura watched her son anxiously for a moment. He seemed to have grown older these past few weeks, more withdrawn than usual. She knew, they all knew, that he was missing his younger brother; still, it amazed her how closed Frank could be without Joe to draw him out, how little he laughed or smiled, how he threw himself into his school work and the psychology books alongside her and Fenton, going to library almost nightly and returning with stacks of books on anorexia, bulimia, depression—words they still struggled to say.

"How are you?" she asked gently, lightly touching her son's arm.

The elder Hardy boy shrugged weakly.

"Honey…I know things are hard right now. But please don't blame yourself for this. You're not responsible for your brother or his actions."

"Mom, it's like…everyone's depending on me! _I'm _depending on me. I thought I could make him understand he's wrong. I thought I could help him. But nothing I've done has been any good."

"Nothing _anyone _has done has done any good," Laura corrected firmly. "Frank, you're not alone here. We all care for Joe, and so do his doctors, but if he refuses to help himself…then maybe he's not ready to recover."

"Then we _make _him recover!"

"How? What else can we do? Aside from feeding tubes—"

"_No._"

"My thoughts exactly."

Frank looked away, out the window to the night, as if it held some unseeable answer.

"Frank, you and I both know that Joe's not perfect. He's stubborn normally, but now with this, it's a real roadblock to his recovery."

"Don't say recovery. It sounds like a drug addiction or something."

"It _is _an addiction, somewhat. It serves the same purpose as alcoholism or drug addiction. It's a cover up, a defense mechanism to his other feelings."

"I know."

Laura sighed, wishing she had some words to comfort him, knowing there was no comfort, for him or her or her husband, until their youngest family member was getting well.

"Well…we have his discharge session tomorrow…one last family therapy…maybe something we'll change before them."

"Sure."

Laura sat silently then, hoping to giver her son some sort of comfort with her presence, wishing she still had the power she had possessed in her children's youth—the power to ease and alleviate their pain with a few kind a words, a pat on the shoulder, a gentle, tender touch. But her boys were men now, and had faced not only physical pain, but now this very real mental anguish that her younger son seemed to feel only he had the capacity to feel. __


	30. Back in Bayport

"Frank, are you okay?"

_You're _asking _me_? The elder Hardy thought, grateful for the red light they'd just paused at. Hard as he tried Frank could not shake the sense of disbelief that he was actually doing this, actually driving his brother to school after all that had happened. The elder Hardy knew that their friends were all concerned, eager to see Joe, to welcome him back; but they also were hoping that they could help him see the light.

"You mad or something? You're giving me the silent treatment."

Frank gripped the wheel with white knuckles and took a deep breath.

"I want to check in with you a lot today. And if you're dizzy, you'll go to the nurse, right? Have her page me, I'll come help you."

"Frank, for God's sake, would you please give it a rest? Just for a day? Look, I'm going back to school, everything's going to be fine. Just relax, okay?"

_It's not okay! Nothing's okay!_

The light changed, and Frank slowly steered the van toward the school parking lot. "You'll meet me for lunch?" the elder Hardy asked, struggling to keep his voice casual.

"I might go and work through lunch. I'm going to be super behind."

_Of course, and then you'll skip, just like you skipped breakfast, ignoring all of our pleas but Joe did you look at our _faces_? Dad, exhausted, turning into an insomniac; Mom, her eyes lightly pink as if she was only resting in between tears; Aunt Gertrude, her face taught, her ideas of what to do lost as Joe's body disappears despite the scoldings. _

_ And me? I don't even know what my own face resembles anymore. Perhaps, like Joe's, it's waning. _

"I'd feel a lot better if you met me," Frank murmured. Joe turned and watched his brother for a moment.

"Frank, have you been sleeping? You look…kinda bad."

"Well, I feel pretty lousy."

"You ought to take a day off and rest or something. You look exhausted, bro."

The elder Hardy pulled into a parking spot, braked, and blinked, hard, fighting off tears. _This _was the real Joe: kind, caring, looking out for his older brother. Not sick, not emaciated, not bent on self-destruction.

Not anorexic. Not bulimic. Not depressed.

"Well…you'll meet me after school then, right? We'll drive home together. Or maybe we can go somewhere, do something."

"All right."

The two boys gathered their things and locked up the van, heading toward the school; halfway there Joe paused, rested a hand on his forehead, swayed.

"Joe?"

"I'm all right," the younger Hardy murmured. Frank slid an arm around him and pulled him close.

"I'll help you," he said gently, hoping Joe wouldn't raise his eyes and see the elder Hardy's eyes rapidly filling with tears.

Frank tried to get through the day.

He stood by as the Hardy's friends welcomed Joe back, all the while casting wary glances at Frank as if to say _what now? Can't you see he's still sick? What should we do?_

_ I don't know, I don't **know **I don't know I don't know I don't know…_

Vanessa had pulled Frank aside and tearfully asked what the Hardy's were going to do, if Joe was going back to the hospital or if they were sending him to a specialized place.

"We don't know Van," Frank had said tiredly. "There isn't much we can do aside from committing him to an institution. Most specialized centers, like RENFREW and such, won't take men. And what good's it do if he won't even try to recover?"

"But…Frank…he needs help. Fast. He's lost weight, didn't they do _anything _for him?"

The elder Hardy had looked past Vanessa to his brother, now sitting on one of the benches in the senior hallway as Chet had patted his shoulder.

"They couldn't," he had murmured.

The elder Hardy went about his day as he usually did. He went to his classes, took notes, handed in his assignments, kissed Callie in the hall, met his friends for lunch—and all the while felt he was breaking.

He barely recognized his brother in the hall now, knew him only by stares given by students who now realized that Joe's absence was not due to a cold or virus, but a very severe weight problem.

Frank, who hadn't been sleeping, or probably eating as much as he should, felt the stress of it all catching up and quietly asked to be excused.

In the hall he stood alone, trying hard to pull himself together: he drew a deep breath, startled to find it escape in a short sob. He tried again; a louder one this time, more aching. Stumbling down the hall, he made his way to the men's room, leaned against the stall, and burst into tears.

_Get a _grip _Hardy, you're still in school you have classes to go to you can't do this, not now, not here, cry at home, cry when you're alone, what are you thinking you weak baby, huh? Joe's the one suffering, Joe's the one depressed, you're just watching him fade away…_

_ But that's just it! I'm watching him fade away. My brother. My best friend. Fading before my eyes. Killing himself._

_ Dying. _

Frank drew a deep breath and got slowly to his feet. He washed his face, dried it with paper towels, and made his way upstairs to the guidance office.

"I'd like to speak to a counselor," he told the woman at the front desk.

She looked him over, frowned, and rose, disappearing into the hall of offices guarded by her desk. Frank glanced around at the many pamphlets set up on tables around the office—pamphlets on depression, pamphlets on suicide, pamphlets on body image, pamphlets on stress and peer pressure and smoking and drugs. Frank thought of health class in junior high and wondered if anyone actually touched this school-time propaganda.

"Third door on the right," the secretary announced, re-emerging and gesturing to the rooms behind her.

Frank thanked her and walked behind her desk and on to a long hall with green tile and cream walls, a hall that reminded him suspiciously of the sixth floor of Bayport General where his brother had resided for the past two weeks. __

"In here," a voice called as Frank passed an office. The elder Hardy pushed the door open and shut it quietly behind him.

"Have a seat," a pleasant man with glasses and a receding hairline said with a grin. "What's your name?"

"Frank Hardy."

"Okay. Oh, do you have a brother? On the wrestling team maybe?"

The elder Hardy bit his lip, hard, and nodded. "Yeah," he almost whispered.

"So, Frank, what can I do for you?"

Frank swallowed hard and drew a trembling breath. "It's…about my…my brother. Joe, his name is Joe. He has this…problem where he won't eat. He's anorexic, and bulimic by now, and he's lost all this weight and I don't—"

"Son," the man gently interrupted.

"What?"

Frank felt his heart pounding as the counselor rubbed his eyes, hoping desperately that this man had some words of wisdom the hospitals missed, that he'd offer to call Joe in and sit him down and help him, that he would understand and—

"Boys can't have eating disorders."


	31. Do You Want To Die?

Frank walked numbly from the office, not knowing whether to laugh or cry or both.

_Boys can't have eating disorders? You should get a look at my brother. Hey, that boy looks like he's about to die and eats only apples and soup and chugs Ipecac and pops Dexatrim but hell it's not anorexia because boys can't have that. Did I mention the bags of food that keep disappearing? The cereal and the chips and clogged pipes from his binging and purging? But nope, it's not bulimia. Boys can't have bulimia. Boys can't have eating disorders. My brother…_

The hallways spun, the empty hallway recently deserted by the lunch bell, and Frank sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands, tears winning out.

_My brother, my kid brother, Joe, has anorexia and bulimia. Joe is going to die if he doesn't get help. And he tells me it can't be an eating disorder. What does he know? What does **anyone** know anymore?_

"Frank?"

The elder Hardy looked up, surprised by his brother's sudden appearance.

"What are you doing out here? I went to meet you and you never showed. Are you okay?"

Frank just shook his head.

"Frank, you're crying! What's wrong?" Joe rushed over, dropping to his knees beside his brother. "What happened?"

Frank took in the bones in his face, the small tee-shirt that hung loosely on his emaciated frame, thought of the Ipecac and laxatives and pills, the pain of the past few months, and reached out, clutching his brother, wanting to feel the jutting bones and ribcage because it had occurred to him that his body was better than the cold stiff dead one Joe would soon possess.

"I love you," he sobbed, feeling Joe stiffen at his touch. "Please Joe, please, I love you so much. Please tell me you'll get help. Please tell me you'll stop throwing up. Tell me you'll eat again. Stop doing this to yourself. I don't want you to do this to yourself. Please…please…"

"Frank, it's okay. It's all right…"

"Nothing's all right! My brother is dying! _Dying_! And I can't do anything to save him! I'm useless and helpless and so scared…" he buried his face in Joe's bony shoulder, rocking him back and forth.

"God Joe, I'm so scared. I'll do anything. Do you want me to stay home? I'll stay home. We'll go to school together. I'll never leave the house without you. Or I'll go away, if you feel inferior to me. I'll get out of your life completely. Whatever you want. Tell me what you want. Tell me how to help you. Please…"

"Frank, Frank, calm _down_, it's okay, I'm all right, _please_ stop crying come on, buddy, it's okay…"

"Nothing's okay! Shutup! You are not okay!" he ripped himself away and seized Joe's shoulders, shaking him violently. "You're _dying_ do you understand that? You have anorexia! You have bulimia! And you won't get help and no one will listen to me! How would you feel if I was dying and you couldn't save me?" Frank let go of his brother and slumped over, his head resting on the floor, the sobs so violent he could barely breathe.

Joe's hand—trembling, light, uncertain—rested on his back, rubbing gently.

"Frank," he murmured, "please calm down. It's okay. I'm not going to die. I really am okay…"

Frank shut his eyes, fury overwhelming him. The denial was so strong that even his hysteria couldn't break through to his younger brother.

_Damn you, Joe. And damn me for not saving you. _

"Can't you see what you're doing!" Frank shouted, seizing his brother and shaking him. Joe was too weak to break free, although he was struggling. "You're destroying our whole family! Mom's a wreck, Dad has horrible insomnia, Aunt Gertrude looks like hell, and me…" Frank's voice caught, and he fought the tears. Joe was staring at him, deathly still. "I've lost my partner, I've lost my brother, I've lost

my best friend. I feel like going home and swallowing your whole Godamned bottle of Ipecac and hoping for a heart attack. I don't even want to look at you anymore. No one does. Where are your friends? Nowhere. No one can stand you. None of us want to sit back and watch you kill yourself. So go ahead. Starve and vomit and drink your Ipecac and die alone. I'm not going to stop you. No one is. So feel free."

Frank slowly got the tears under control; he took a deep breath, calming himself, clearing his vision.

And almost wish he hadn't.

The look on Joe's voice said more than words: pain, exhaustion, grief. And betrayal. So much betrayal.

"I knew you'd give up," Joe almost whispered. "All of you. I knew…none of you…really…" the younger Hardy choked on his words, and Frank felt horror seizing his lungs.

_No. No! Oh my God that's what this has all been about! He doesn't understand that we love him. He thought we'd give up if he took it far enough. And I just proved him right. __I.__ proved. him. right._

"Joe," he gasped, reaching for his younger brother. But he stumbled away.

"No, Frank. You meant what you said."

"No I didn't…"

"Oh yes you did. Die alone you said. You won't stop me…"

"Joe, for one second try and see things from my side! I'm so frustrated. I'm so afraid for you. I don't want to lose you. Joe, do you hear me? I do _not_ want to lose you. But I don't know what else to do…"

"Just sit back. That's what you said. I might as well just leave and go die in a gutter somewhere in a pool of my own vomit. That's what you said. Just go and…" Joe's voice broke and his knees gave out. "…die."

Frank slowly kneeled down in front of his brother. "Joe," he murmured as his brother buried his face in his hands and wept. "Look at me."

The younger Hardy shook his head.

"Joe," Frank said firmly. "Do you want to die?"

Joe shook his head again.

"Then trust me, buddy. Please. Let me help you. I want to help you. Joe? I don't want you to die. But you are. And you will if you don't get help. Why don't you let me to take you to get help?"

"Because you hate me."

"No I don't."

"You said…"

"Forget what I said! It's not what I meant. I could never hate you. Think for a minute. Pull away from this disease and listen to me. You know me better than anyone, right? You know how much I care about you. You know I've been trying to help you. You know I'd do anything for you, Joe. Please, _please_ let me help you."

Joe didn't say a word; he just leaned forward until his forehead touched Frank's, his face still covered. Frank shut his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling Joe's body shaking with the tears that had them both.

"Take me home?" Joe whispered, reaching up to cling to his older brother's torso.

Frank nodded and gently stroked Joe's hair.


	32. Seeing Bone

Frank Hardy was emotionally and physically exhausted. Joe had disappeared as soon as they'd arrived home, and Frank had found him sleeping, wrapped in all his covers.

He'd confessed to his mother the awful scene that had occurred in the hallway, and his trip to the guidance counselor. Laura had instantly gotten on the phone and vocally dismembered the man for his ignorance to male eating issues and his failed attempt to help her son. Frank had eaten little for lunch and gone to sit in Joe's room for awhile, watching the rise and fall of the blankets and finding a strange sort of comfort in it. At least Joe was here, he was with him, and now Frank was beginning to understand some of the issues that plagued his younger brother: the loss of confidence, the insistence that no one cared for him, that he was alone.

Frank sighed and rolled over to check the clock. 5:30. They'd be called for dinner soon, and the elder Hardy wanted to talk to Joe before then. Forcing himself up, he briefly combed his hair, straightened his shirt, and crossed the bathroom to his brother's room.

Joe was awake, his hair slightly tousled, sitting on the edge of the bed rocking himself ever so slightly.

"Joe?"

The younger Hardy looked up, his eyes slightly pink.

"You all right?"

He shook his head. Frank came slowly in and sat beside him.

"Are you thinking about earlier?"

Joe's eyes filled. Frank touched his shoulder.

"I can see all my ribs," he murmured.

Frank swallowed, hard.

"And I like it."

Frank shut his eyes, but he felt Joe turn to look at him.

"And now I'm really scared."

The elder Hardy drew a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm for his brother's sake.

"Frank."

He opened his eyes and met Joe's terror filled blue ones.

"I'm really sick, aren't I?"

_No_ _crap_! Frank was tempted to scream. But he just nodded.

Joe turned away and stared at himself in the mirror. "Then why am I still so…_big_?"

Frank threw his arms around his brother and held him tightly as Joe burst into tears.


	33. Frank's Decision

Silence fell on the Hardy dinner table the moment Joe took his seat. Frank sat beside him, a hand ghosting over his brother's shoulder, reluctant to break the moment of mutual fear and, maybe, an understanding.

"Honey," Mrs. Hardy said, her voice slightly strained, "eat tonight."

Joe nodded, weakly, shocking everyone around the table.

"I'll try," the younger Hardy murmured, looking to his elder brother. Frank nodded and patted Joe's back reassuringly.

Gertrude was on her feet in a moment, filling a plate with grilled chicken, peas and carrots, and fruit salad. Joe thanked her when she set it down and picked up his fork, then looked the rest of the table.

"Could all of you please not stare at me?" he mumbled.

Fenton, Gertrude, and Laura, lowered their eyes, muttered apologies, and began busying themselves with their own plates. Only Frank remained still, watching his brother's every move, the trajectory of the fork toward the carrots, the hesitation above each orange bit, moving toward the peas, stopping, going on to the chicken, halting altogether and finding its way back to the table.

"I can't," Joe whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "I can't. It's too much."

"Then cut it Joe, and just eat a little," Frank said gently, all eyes back on the two brothers. "I'll put some of it on my plate if you want. It's really not much at all, kiddo."

But the younger Hardy shook his head and slowly began to swing his legs to the side of the chair, indicating he was ready to flee to the shelter of his room with nothing in him.

"Joe, you told me you were scared…"

"Well, food scares me more."

"Joseph, this is ludicrous!" Gertrude snapped, "It's not enough that you're hurting yourself, you have to ruin your entire family! Not a care to anyone but yourself, that's what…"

"I know!" Joe shouted, leaping up from the table. "I'm terrible, and you all should know that by now, because I sure do, and you all will just…just…" Joe swayed; Frank leapt to his feet and caught him.

"Son…" Fenton soothed, "sit down and relax…"

Joe put a hand to his head and drew a deep, shaky breath as the elder Hardy eased him down to his chair.

"You have to eat," Frank murmured. "Joe, we'll do it together, but you're weak, and dizzy, and you need to get something in you."

Joe shook his head again, and something crystallized for Frank: born out of love or desperation he was never sure, but suddenly he knew what to do.

"Then I won't eat either." He said, quietly but with a steely resolve.

All eyes turned from Joe to Frank, but the elder Hardy kept his gaze on the startled blue orbs locked on his own brown ones.

"Frank…" Laura gasped.

"No, this makes sense. Since what Joe is doing is fine, since he's not sick and doesn't need help and is in fact more healthy than he was before, than I can do that to. So," he said, his eyes still locked on his paling brother, "when you eat I'll eat, and I'll eat what you eat, and when you don't, I don't. How's that sound?"

Joe, white, didn't respond, only stared in growing horror at his elder brother.

"You can't do that," he finally whispered.

"I'll only be doing what you're doing, and you've made it clear that that's okay."

"For _me_ it's okay, but—"

"If it's okay for you it's okay for me. That's how we work, right brother? You and me together, taking our risks, living our lives. You jump I jump and all that sentimental shit. So you eat, I eat, you don't, I don't, you live, I live, you die..." Frank paused, ensuring that he had his stunned brother riveted, then continued, quiet but firm. "I die too."

****


	34. An Attempt

Joe felt the room begin to spin, shut his eyes, pulled the covers closer, heard his brother sigh.

Two and a half-days. In two and a half days he hadn't eaten a thing.

Neither had Frank.

The elder Hardy was beside him now, rubbing his eyes, clearly as dizzy Joe. But despite Joe's insistent arguing, his brother refused to go near the kitchen unless his brother agreed to go with him.

"Frank," Joe murmured, reaching out to touch his elder brother's hand. "You've got to eat."

"So do you."

"Look at you, you're dizzy, you're—"

"What? And you're healthy?"

Joe clenched his jaw shut, sighed. "I need to…"

"No you don't. This is bullshit Joe, all of it. It's bullshit your messed up brain's feeding you and you're buying it brother, in a big way. Damnit to hell Joe, when are you going to realize I love you?"

The younger Hardy felt his eyes fill with tears. "I do…"

"No, you don't. Because if you did you wouldn't do this to yourself. Because it hurts _me_, Joe. It's _killing _me." He raised his eyes to meet his brother's light blue ones. "Literally," he murmured, reaching out to the headboard for support.

Joe closed his eyes, wiped a tear that made it out from under his lids, drew a deep breath. No matter how badly he hated himself, no matter how harshly his mind restricted him, he could never bear to see Frank in pain. Even now.

"Okay," he whispered.

"What?"

"I'll…I'll eat something."

Frank's eyes lit up. "You mean it?"

"You have to eat with me."

"Bite for bite. What do you want? Soup?"

"Something easy."

"Soup, then. I'll bring it up." He reached down, squeezed his brother's hand. "Hang in there, kiddo."

Joe opened his eyes as his brother left the room, half wanting to call him back as the voices started:

_Evil disgusting unloved unwanted don't you go near that food don't let a bite touch your lips don't give in after all this work, all this time, don't—_

"Stop it," Joe mumbled, covering his ears, "I can't do this to Frank. I don't care about me, but I won't hurt him. You won't convince me to."

But the voices continued, chanting insults spewing falsehoods igniting hatred of himself, of his body, of his very existence.

Frank, ignorant of his brother's internal struggle, came through the door a moment later and set two bowls on the nightstand.

"Come on," he murmured, "sit up."

Joe, trembling, obeyed slowly, gripping the headboard and his elder brother's arm for support as the conviction of a moment ago wavered.

"Frank…"

"You said you would."

"I will…but…you first?"

The elder Hardy shook his head. Joe couldn't remember ever seeing his face so set, the features so hardened. As if Frank were beyond caring, or so far into it that the compromising side of him couldn't be reached. "I'll eat what you eat."

The smell of tomato and vegetables reached the younger boy's nose; he moaned.

"I'm scared…" he whispered.

Frank nodded and moved to the bed, slipping an arm around him and pulling him close.

"Listen to me. I would never do anything to hurt you. You know that, right? Come on. Bite for bite. We'll do it together."

Joe shivered, stared down at the bowl suddenly in his hands, feeling the heat seeping into his palms. Swallowed; looked to his brother's pale features—thinner already?—and nodded, dipping the spoon in beneath the broth and emerging with a chunk of potato.

And so they went, Frank eating as his brother did, both relaxing, until Joe realized that he was actually enjoying the flavor of the soup, of the tomato and his aunt's seasoned potatoes, his mother's stir-fried vegetables, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of fullness, enjoying—

"I want to get rid of it," he sobbed suddenly, reaching across his brother to drop the bowl on the night table and moving toward the edge of the mattress, fully intending to run to the bathroom, drop to his knees and shove his finger down this throat until he was empty again.

But Frank was too quick; he set his own bowl down and seized his younger brother, pulled him almost roughly close.

"Stay strong for me," he murmured. "It'll pass. The urge will pass. See? Nothing happened…"

_Something is. You're growing, expanding, becoming a giant…_

"Frank I have to get rid of it!" Joe begged, trying to twist away.

"No," the elder Hardy remained firm, his arms clenching almost painfully around the frail younger boy. "Joe, listen. Nothing happened, right? You're the same size. And even if you weren't, I wouldn't care. I wouldn't care if you were three hundred pounds Joe, which you'll never be anyway. You're my brother, do you understand that? Nothing will change that, certainly not half a bowl of vegetable soup."

Joe felt something in his chest, something that had been ever on the verge of collapse sever, and he was crying in spite of himself, in spite of the voice calling him weak, in spite of his hatred of his body and himself, he was crying because he knew this was madness, he knew he was weak and he was depressed and that he needed help he just couldn't ask for.

"Oh Frank," he sobbed as the elder Hardy smoothed his hair back, "what happened? What have I done?"

"I don't know," Frank whispered, his voice husky. "But we can fix it. Just let us help you, brother."

"But I'll have to gain weight."

"Yes."

"I can't do that."

"Would you rather die?"

Joe fell silent.

"I don't know," he finally whispered, and it wasn't at all an avoidance but a painful, unforeseeable truth.


	35. The Binge

_Eat chew bite down you need food now in your mouth you have to be chewing something salty something sweet something **anything**…_

Joe shivered despite the blankets, despite the arm Frank had protectively slipped around him as the two dropped off to sleep in the younger Hardy's bed. His stomach was staging a coup, overthrowing the mind and the will and seeking its own survival. Joe felt his resolve weakening.

_Food.__ Now. Anything. Eat. Eateateateateateat…_

Looking back, Joe didn't know how he did it. He dragged himself from the bed and stumbled blindly down the stairs, swaying and dizzy, and attacked the cupboards, shoving boxes of cereal in his mouth, bags of chips, crackers, pretzels, racing to the bathroom, downing Ipecac and getting rid of all of it, then back to the kitchen, through the fridge—soup chicken fish milk steak—back to the bathroom fingers down his throat vomiting over and over looking for markers—white is the milk and that was first and now its red for blood okay it's all out—back to the kitchen through the fruit, the vegetables onto the freezer—ice cream fishsticks bagels bread—back to the bathroom more Ipecac Ipecac Ipecac torrents of blood now back to the kitchen nothing left but a jar of peanut butter eats with his hands back to the bathroom.

Blacked out.

They told him later it was a miracle he survived the night, that he didn't experience the fatal gastric rupture that claims the lives of many bulimics, that the blood from his torn esophagus and stomach hadn't choked off his airway.

But Joe made it, and came to on the bathroom floor, dragging himself up, the room spinning and swirling, and stumbled from the kitchen to the family room, knowing that there would be no way out of this one.

He had eaten almost all the food in the house.


	36. The Admission

Frank sighed, rolled over, reached for his brother, found the bed beside him empty. Startled, he sat up, looking through the darkness for some sign of Joe: nothing.

"Joe?" Frank called to the empty room. He shot out of bed, hard pounding, and checked the bathroom, his room, the hallway, then sprinted down the stairs, two at a time, ignoring the obvious risk in the darkness. He flicked the lights on in the dining room—nothing—and the living room—still nothing—and then, finally, the kitchen, where he froze: the cupboards were open and empty. He raced to the fridge: the same. Freezer. Almost bare.

Raced to the bathroom, finding the empty Ipecac. Felt tears burn behind his eyelids.

"JOE!" he shouted to the house, terrified of finding his brother dead in his own blood filled vomit as he raced toward the family room.

The younger Hardy was balled on the couch, clutching a pillow and sobbing hysterically.

"Joe," Frank sank to his knees beside him, the tears finally claiming him, the strain and fear and grief catching up and crashing down. "I was barely asleep an hour…"

"Oh Frank," Joe sobbed, leaning forward to clutch his brother around the neck. "I ate it all. And I threw it all up."

"Christ Joe…"

But the words finally came, the words Frank had struggled to pull from his brother's lips, the words he and his parents and the doctors and his friends had ached to hear:

"I need help."


	37. Part Four

"How're you holding up?"

Joe shrugged and shivered. He and Frank were sitting outside the nurses' station at Bayport General, back on the eating disorder ward. The Hardy parents had awakened to find their sons dressed, Joe's bag packed, awaiting transport to the hospital where Joe would allow himself to be signed in as a relapse patient.

"I'm cold," the younger Hardy mumbled. Frank slid his arm off his brother's shoulders and took off his own black jacket, wrapping it tenderly around Joe before replacing his arm.

"Shouldn't be too much longer."

Joe nodded, sighed, looked up to the floor beyond. Several girls were looking at him, inevitably whispering about the appearance of a male on the floor.

"Joe?" A voice said, and the younger Hardy turned to see Vanessa, the nurse from earlier, standing in the doorway with a clipboard in her hand. "Why don't you come back and we'll do weights and measures."

Joe hesitated, but Frank patted him on the back and he nodded, reluctantly handing his older brother's jacket back before following the nurse into the back room.

"Put this on," she said, handing him a paper gown and setting the scale down to zero, placing a new plastic on the instant thermometer.

"Anyone I'd know still here?" he asked as he took his shirt off.

"A couple who were on bed rest. You probably wouldn't remember them."

Joe stepped out of his pants and slid the gown on over his boxers, trembling from the constant cold his body forced him to endure as punishment for refusing meals.

"Do you remember the other boy? Jamie?"

The nurse hesitated, turned and raised her eyebrows at him.

"You knew Jamie?"

"Sure. He talked to me a few times." Joe sighed and looked away. "Told me not to relapse."

Vanessa nodded and pulled the stethoscope off of her neck, crossing the room to press the cold metal against his skin.

"Breathe in," she murmured, touching his bony shoulder.

He obeyed, watching her frown, then turn and make a note.

"Have you had an EKG yet?"

"No."

"Your heart rate is much slower than it should be. I'll set one up for you this afternoon. And bloodwork."

Joe nodded, but something about her aloofness troubled him.

"Hop on the scale," she murmured. "Backwards. Relapse patients can't look."

The younger Hardy felt heat creep into his face, wanted to curse the woman off and look anyway, but then he realized with dismay that no matter what the number was, it wouldn't be small enough.

Vanessa adjusted the height instrument to the top of Joe's head, made a note on the clipboard, then slid the metal along the scale.

"Jamie died," she said softly.

Joe started, felt himself pale.

"What? How?"

She balanced the scale and sighed, then turned to make a note. "Step down."

"Vanessa!"

"I know, honey. We'd seen him so many times before, we were used to him. It was a shock for us too."

"How?"

"Heart attack. In his sleep. He didn't suffer."

Joe felt dizzy. "Heart attack? How? He was…well, not healthy, but I didn't know…"

Vanessa guided Joe over to the examining table and ordered him to sit. He hadn't realized he'd been swaying.

"When a severe anorectic begins to recover," she explained, "the body gains weight at an enormous speed. The metabolism and the heart have slowed down to adjust to this smaller body, and the rapid change is a shock on the entire system. Sometimes it's too much, and the heart can't take the strain. Like with Jamie. He'd been so ill, so _severely _emaciated for so long that his body simply couldn't take the gain. And so his heart…rebelled."

Joe bit his lip, felt sick.

_Don't repeat my mistake_, the boy had said.

And here he had.


	38. Seperation

"The insurance approved you," Dr. Ziv announced, laying a folder on the table and taking a seat across from the four anxious Hardy's. "And I've spoken with your psychiatrist and nutritionist and we've reached an agreement about your contract."

"Contract?" Joe asked wearily. The day had been too long for him, filled with session after session of repeating himself, his age, the overview of his 'relapse' that really had never stemmed from a cure.

"Anyone who has demonstrated non-compliance is put on a contract," the doctor explained. "This means that if you don't comply you will be removed from treatment." The doctor pulled out a yellow folder, then removed a blue paper that he turned toward the Hardy's. "First, no skipping supplements. If you skip a supplement you will immediately go on second contract, and if you miss again you will be removed. Second, no purging. If you are caught purging, you'll be given a second contract. Third, no skipping groups. Skip a group, second contract. Fourth, no skipping weights and measurements. Skip one…you get the idea. Also, no supplements after four days. After then you have to eat your meals, regardless of the meal plan your nutritionist puts you on."

Joe was white. He gripped the arm of the chair; Frank touched his hand.

"Isn't that too much too fast?" the elder Hardy boy demanded.

"There is no other way. We have to counterattack the disorder hard and fast. Easing patients into it means they'll inevitably choose to back out. It's a set-up for relapse. We have to put you through all the rough stuff as quickly as possible, so that the patient can move on to exploring the psychological issues beneath the disease."

Mrs. Hardy reached over and took her son's other hand. Fenton rubbed his eyes and sighed.

Joe looked to the ground, then up at his weary family. The family that loved him. The family he was killing.

"Okay," he murmured, exhaustion suddenly taking him. He hoped Dr. Ziv would send him to his room—he was coming in on Level One, total bed rest—and let him sleep, but she leaned back and looked almost hesitant.

"I'm going to make a suggestion that may not go over very well," the doctor told the anxious Hardys. Joe pulled his blanket closer and leaned his head on Frank's shoulder. The elder Hardy slid an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

"Well?" Fenton asked as the doctor hesitated, watching the boys closely. He drew a breath and looked straight at Joe.

"I'm going to recommend that you do not see your brother for the remainder of your stay here."

The room was silent for a moment. Then Joe burst out:

"What kind of bullshit is that? What do you mean I can't see Frank?"

"I think it would be best for the two of you to separate."

"Why?" Laura asked, clearly confused and hoping to calm her youngest son.

"Because separation issues are often tied to eating disorders. Normally, it's the patient tied to the parent. But in this case, I believe it's Joe tied to Frank."

"I don't understand…"

The doctor sighed. "Look, we're dealing primarily with the subconscious here. And I'm not saying this is the root of Joe's eating disorder, because there is no one factor. There are many. But I see a major one being how close Frank and Joe are, and how Frank is making plans to go away to school soon, and maybe, just maybe, deep in Joe's subconscious, his brain decided that if he got sick, Frank wouldn't leave. And so the body grew ill."

Joe was white. "I would _never_…"

"_Subconscious_, Joe. I didn't say you made this decision, because we all know you didn't. But maybe there's a part in your mind that did, and that is part of what's keeping you ill. If you become used to functioning without your brother around, it may help keep you healthy when Frank leaves."

"But…Frank's what's getting me through this…" Joe stumbled, and looked so dangerously close to tears Frank felt his own confusion melt away to anger.

"Look, with all due respect," the elder Hardy brother broke in, "I think this is a crock of bull. Joe and I aren't joined at the hip, and my brother helped me research colleges out of state. And if you think for one minute that I'm going to sit back and let my brother go through this alone, you're wrong. You're dead wrong."

"I'm not going to argue this," the doctor said crisply, "but that is my recommendation. You can do with it as you see fit."

With that she rose and excused himself from the room.

"I wouldn't do that…" Joe pleaded.

"I know," Frank said firmly, despairing at how weak his brother seemed, how exhausted, as if he didn't even have the strength to rage.

"Frank…Joe…maybe…just maybe…the doctor has a point," their father began. Frank started to protest, but he rushed on. "Just think…subconsciously. That's what he said. Maybe it would do you both some good to just separate for a little while."

Joe leaned forward, buried his face in his hands, and began to sob.

"Honey," Laura murmured, moving forward and pulling him against her. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

"I'm so tired Mom…"

"I know baby, I know…"

"And I feel so _weak_…"

"I know…"

"And he said…no one understands…Frank said he'd help me…he said…he promised…"

"I'm not going anywhere, Joe," the elder Hardy soothed, moving closer to his mother and brother. "We're not going to listen to him, okay?"

Joe just sobbed harder into his mother's shoulder, and Frank knew how close his brother was to breaking. But the elder Hardy would never let him bend.

"Listen to me," he ordered, pulling his brother away from his mother to force him to look at him. "Joe, remember what I told you? I promised I'd be right by you the whole time. That's not changing. You won't always feel this bad, I promise. As soon as you start eating you'll start feeling better…"

"I can't. I can't eat. They give you so much food here, Frank, so much fatty food, and supplements if you don't finish, and sometimes even if you do…"

"But you need that to be healthy. Remember how you promised me you'd get healthy if I helped you? Well, I'm here to help you. So now you have to uphold your end."

Joe started to slump again, but Frank straightened him.

"It's okay. It's going to be okay. I don't lie, right?"

The younger Hardy boy nodded, rubbed his eyes as the door opened.

"You can move your things in now," Dr. Ziv announced.


	39. Van's Visit

"Would you like a visitor?"

Joe turned over, blinked at the nurse in the doorway.

"What time is it?"

"Around four."

Four. His family wasn't coming until seven; he wasn't expecting anyone else.

"Who is it?"

The nurse glanced behind her, stepped aside as Vanessa Bender came the doorway, resting her hand on the frame.

"Hey baby," she murmured.

Joe felt his breath catch, forced it in and out. "Van."

She nodded and crossed the room to sit beside him. She reached for his hand; he turned away.

"How're you holding up?" she asked after a moment.

Joe shivered and pulled his blankets closer. Two days into treatment and he was already desperate to go home. The doctors told him that was part of it; an almost-punishment for failing to appreciate the goodness of your life. At least, that's how it felt to Joe.

"I'm drinking supplements," he murmured.

"That's good," she said gently.

"It's hard."

"I know."

A beat.

"Everyone's asking about you. Chet and Callie and Phil and Biff…they all want to come, if you want to see them."

"No," the younger Hardy snapped, "I don't. I don't want to see anyone. I shouldn't even see you."

Vanessa's eyes widened. "Joe…"

"I'm afraid, Van," Joe's voice suddenly began to tremble.

"Of what?"

"I'm afraid…you won't want to touch me anymore. I'm afraid you won't love me. I never knew why you loved me…"

"Baby," Vanessa murmured, stroking Joe's hair back from his forehead. "I'm afraid to touch you _now._ It's like…if I do, you'll break. You seem so _fragile_. But that doesn't mean that I don't love you. I'll love you no matter what your weight. I'll love you if you're _overweight_, which you won't be. Your body isn't you. If I suddenly gained thirty pounds, would you feel any different about me?"

Joe shook his head.

"So why would I feel that way about you?"

The younger Hardy looked away, tears streaming down his face.

"Because I'm dirty," he whispered.

"What? Dirty? Why do you think that?"

"I don't know."

Tears stung Vanessa's eyes as she ran her fingers through the dirty—Joe was too weak to shower—blonde locks.

"Trust me baby," she murmured, "trust all of us when we say that we love you. None of us would lie to you, Joe. You just have to ignore yourself for now and believe in us. Can you try that?"

Joe shut his eyes and didn't answer.

"I love you," she murmured, taking his hand in her own. "Joe? Do you hear me? I love you. Not this disease. I miss you. I miss…" her voice caught, broke, "…my big, strong man."


	40. Getting There

Frank found Joe pale, eyes pink, curled almost fetally on the bed.

"You okay?" he asked softly, pulling a chair over beside his brother's bed.

"Vanessa stopped by."

The elder Hardy boy nodded.

"She…she's afraid of me, Frank. Because of how I look."

"Oh, Joe…"

The younger Hardy looked at his brother, pleading. "It wasn't supposed to _be _like this…it was supposed to be the opposite…if I lost weight I was supposed to be cleaner…I wasn't supposed to be dirty anymore…"

"Dirty? How are you dirty?"

"I don't _know_," Joe moaned, covering his face with his hands. "I can't do this anymore, Frank. I've gained weight already. I just feel filthy…I just want it to be over…"

"Damnit Joe, fight! Please. Think; if this was some crook or criminal conquering you you'd never give in. You'd fight to your dying breath. Do that for me. Fight back. Don't let this thing win. Don't let it kill you. Joe…for God's sake…" Frank's voice cracked, and his eyes shone with tears that stunned the younger Hardy, "…don't leave me."

"Frank…" Joe's own throat swelled, and he stared at his brother, unable to speak, desperately wanting to bury himself in the shelter of his older brother's embrace, terrified of what it meant—touch, tenderness, love too intense, too frightening. Frank's desperation touched him, but it also terrified him, and although he wanted to be swallowed in his older brother's love, he was afraid it would take him whole. "I'm so scared," he finally whispered. "Oh, Frank, I'm so, so scared…"

"Let me hold you," Frank pleaded. "I know you're afraid of touch, but please. I won't hurt you. You'll feel better. Please Joe…"

Joe could only nod and try to hide the signs of fear that threatened to claim him; the rushing in and out of breath, the pounding of his heart, the tears that burned in his blue eyes. Frank moved forward, carefully putting his arms around Joe's fragile torso, feeling the jutting bones of his shoulders, neck, and back. Joe tried desperately not to shudder, but his older brother's warmth frightened him, and he gave himself over to tremor after tremor, burying deeper into Frank's embrace, shutting his eyes to listen to the steady beating of his heart beneath the sweatshirt.

_Maybe I did think it. Maybe I didn't want him to leave. I didn't; I don't. But did I choose that specifically just to keep him here? I need him so much, and I don't want to. But we need each other. It's give and take. Only it seems I'm always taking…_

"I'm sorry, Frank," Joe sobbed, "I'm sorry you're stuck with me for a brother. I'm sorry I'm never there for you like you are for me. I'm sorry you didn't get someone who deserves you."

"What are you talking about? Joe? You're always there for me. How many times have you dragged me out of the house when all I wanted to do was study or work? How many times have you tracked me down and rescued me from the bad guys? How many times have you listened to me bitch and moan about school, or Callie, or work, or Mom and Dad? Please, believe me. Believe me when I say I need you. Believe me when I say…that I really…care about you. So much, Joe. No matter what this illness is doing to you, you have to know that."

Joe just clung to his brother, trembling, trying to absorb all the emotion, trying to hold on to some semblance of himself, desperately wanting to remember what it had been like to be the old Joe, with confidence and self-esteem, with a feeling of worth.

"I'm afraid the doctor's right, Frank," he whispered a moment later.

Frank raised his eyebrows. "About what?"

"The separation thing."

"But you said…"

"You're not going to go away, are you?"

Frank clamped his mouth shut and sighed.

"See?"

"Joe, it was unintentional. Although I wish you had just told me."

Joe shut his eyes an gritted his teeth. "How could I do that to you, Frank? How could I keep you from going to the place you wanted? The doctor said it. We have to separate."

"Joe, it would have been a better for you to just tell me you were anxious rather than wait until you were about to die. You know I won't leave now. I _can't_ leave now."

"You have to, Frank. You can't let this thing win."

"That would be a set up for you to relapse."

"So what are you going to do? Go to Bayport U when you could get into Columbia, or Penn, just because of your stupid brother?"

"It'll just be for a year or so."

"Until what? I decide to go away? And then what, Frank? Will you choose your school based on my city? You can't be looking over my shoulder forever, you know."

"What the hell do you want from me Joe? You can't possibly expect me to just go away after all this and not worry. How do you think I feel knowing that I had a hand in this whole thing?"

"Frank! You didn't. No one did but me and my subconscious. All right? You can't stay here out of guilt. You'd hate me before long."

"Joe…"

"_No_. You're not staying. You're going to go away to some Ivy League school and kick ass, and then we'll have the rest of our lives to annoy each other when we start our own detective business. Got it?"

Frank sighed and shook his head. "I don't think I'd be able to concentrate on school. I'd just be worrying if you were eating, or throwing up, or upset and not telling me."

Joe closed his eyes and rested against his brother's chest for a moment, hearing his heartbeat.

"I would never forgive myself if you gave up college because of me."

Frank started. "I wouldn't be giving it up completely, just some part of it…"

"Frank, please. You'd be giving up your chance for a social life, giving up a chance to be with your intellectual equals, of working with great professors…everything! Just for me! How can I forgive myself for that?"

"I don't know," the elder Hardy felt himself weakening, "I don't know anything anymore. Not you, not what I should do, not what I did wrong…nothing."

"You do know, Frank. You've known what was going on with me before I had any idea. You knew how to get me help and you did it. You didn't let me get away with lying. And you've stayed by me. But you can't be doing that your entire life. Sooner or later I need to learn to live with myself, because it looks like I'm stuck being Joe for awhile."

Frank smiled, although his eyes were filled and his voice was husky. "You're beginning to sound like yourself."

Joe closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was drinking supplements, eating some solid food. He'd signed himself into treatment. He wasn't exercising, wasn't purging. And he was beginning to realize he was wrong.

"I think I might be getting there," he murmured.


	41. Recovering?

Those who remembered him had raised their eyebrows, but Joe was far more compliable the second time around. He forced himself to finish his trays and drank his supplements when he didn't. He dragged himself up at five a.m. for weights and measures and began speaking of his insecurities to his doctors. He took the antidepressant that was handed to him in a paper cup and made his way upstairs to family and individual therapy. He asked not to be told what exactly consisted of his meal plan until he had reached Level 3, when he'd be officially off bed rest, moved upstairs, and begin attending Group Therapy sessions.

The weight came on fast and furious, and with it came a depression unlike Joe had ever imagined existed. He wanted nothing more than to lie in bed all day, which he would if the nurses weren't there to drag you up. Nothing seemed funny, or happy, or worth rising for: even sunlight seemed lined with darkness, as if he were viewing the slowly emerging Spring like a widescreen movie.

It was to Frank and Frank alone that the younger Hardy confided his fears of worthlessness, the helplessness of having lost control of all aspects of his life, the unfamiliarity of his body, the nausea after meals, the terror of having eaten, the urge to run to the toilet and vomit and vomit and vomit until he was clean and pure but knowing now that he'd never be, not this way, because the disease would never let him stop until—

And Frank would put his arms around and stroke his hair and tell him not to say it, to just go on and get through it because one day—promise promise—it will all be better. It was to Frank and Frank alone that he cried.

One month after Joe's admission, his treatment team met with the Hardy family with smiles and congratulations on their son's improvement look at the numbers—weight heart-rate nutrition—everything was up and positive and looking much better.

"We think," Dr. Ziv said with a smile, "that you're ready to become a day patient."

Laura touched her son's arm, but Joe barely glanced up.

"Honey?" Laura murmured. "That's good news, don't you think?"

"You can come home," Fenton said with a grin, hoping his son would show some positive reaction to the news.

Joe finally looked to Frank, who was watching him calmly.

"I'll help you," he said gently, and Joe finally brightened.

"Okay," he sighed, "I'm ready."


	42. Attack

"Whatcha doing?"

Frank glanced up from his laptop and saw Joe in the bathroom doorway. The younger Hardy had moved back to his room a week ago, but his parents had only unlocked his side of the bathroom the night before, after seeing their son struggle through his meals without slipping back into any old habits. Joe went to the hospital from 9:00 to 5:00, where he ate lunch and snack and attended group and individual therapy, nutrition counseling, and saw his psychiatrist. They'd even hinted at giving him a day or two off in the upcoming week, and Frank had promised to stay home from school and take him somewhere.

The elder Hardy offered his brother a grin. "Research."

"For school?"

"Yup."

Joe came slowly in and sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed. Frank waited, knowing he wanted to say something, but the younger Hardy was quiet.

"Something wrong?"

"No."

"How was therapy?"

"Okay."

Again, Frank waited, but Joe stayed silent.

"Joe?"

"Mind if I sit with you?"

"No. Not at all. What's going on?"

"Nothing." He sighed. "Nothing different, that is."

Frank nodded. Joe had been far more open about his emotions than he had in the past, but there were still times he'd draw the line and refuse to share anymore.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"All right."

Joe lay down and eyed the computer screen.

"You doing a report on anorexia for school?"

Frank blushed. "No. Just trying to educate myself."

"Aw, Frank. Try to stop thinking of me for a minute and do something fun. Blow bubbles or something."

"Blow bubbles? Yeah, I frequently do that when you're not sick."

Joe grinned, and for a second things seemed so close to normal Frank almost couldn't believe how sick his brother really was.

"You're looking a lot better. I mean, your face looks healthier."

The smile disappeared. Joe looked away, then drew his arms across his chest.

Frank sighed, wondering if he'd ever know the right thing to say. Nothing seemed to make his brother feel better.

"Just trying to help," he muttered. Joe turned back to him.

"I know, Frank. I'm sorry I'm so touchy."

"Don't sweat it kid."

Joe glared at him, but couldn't hide a smile. "You know I hate that name."

"Yeah, well, it's the perk of being the older one."

"Fine, old man."

Frank turned back to the screen. "Some of this stuff is really interesting, especially the sites on male eating disorders. Did you know that a lot of them start with wrestling? Some of the competitors fast for weeks before a meet, or wear trash bags and run up and down the stairs to sweat them out. Then there's laxatives and diuretics, and water pills. A lot of athletes end up sick from dehydration, not from running around too much at a sporting event but from deliberately purging their body of water for weight purposes. Hey, did I tell you? Bulimic doesn't mean you throw up. Purging can also be exercising or restricting or—"

"Frank."

The fear in Joe's voice caused Frank to whirl around. Joe had sat up straight and was gripping his wrist, his face white.

"What's wrong?"

"My heart hurts."

"What?"

The younger Hardy reached out a trembling hand toward his brother. "Feel my pulse."

Frank took it; the beat was racing. He remembered all the doctors warning what a risk Joe was for a heart-attack, how all severe anorexics were at risk when they started eating again, and felt a sudden rush of nausea.

"Okay," the elder Hardy said, struggling to keep his voice steady. Joe was sweating and trembling and not even bothering to hide his fear. "Let's go to the hospital okay? It'll be all right. Can you walk?"

Joe nodded, slowly getting to his feet. Frank took his arm and lead his brother down the stairs.

"Do you know where the car keys are?"

"No…"

"All right. Don't worry. Sit down for a sec, I think I left them up—"

Joe cried out and doubled over. Frank leapt for him as he pitched forward, catching him before he could hit the floor.

"Oh my God Frank, my chest, my arm, I can't…" he cried out again, desperately clawing at his brother's shirt.

"Lie down, breathe slowly, just hold on," Frank mumbled, fighting to detangle himself while reaching for the phone and hitting 911.

Frank spoke quickly into the phone, stroking Joe's hair as he did, tripping over the word "heart attack," trying desperately not to look at his younger brother's face when he said it.

"Frank…" Joe moaned and doubled over on the floor.

"I'm here, it's gonna be okay. Hang on, all right? Just hang on. Everything's going to be all right. There's an ambulance on the way…"

"Frank? Joe? We're ho—" the word died on his mother's lips as she and Fenton entered the kitchen. "Joe! Oh my God what's going on?"

"We think he's having a heart attack," Frank said softly, struggling to keep his voice steady for his brother's sake. Joe whimpered and clutched at Frank's shirt. The elder Hardy just smoothed his younger brother's hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead.

"Oh my God! No! Joe!" Laura rushed over and knelt on the floor, wiping tears from her younger son's face. "It'll be all right, baby. It'll be all right."

"Frank, did you call an ambulance?" Fenton asked, his voice shaky as he too, knelt beside his younger son.

"Yeah. It's on the way."

"Baby, what hurts? Your chest?"

Joe nodded. "And my…arm…I can't…get a…breath…"

"Just relax sweetie. Breathe slowly. It'll be all right."

"Mom," Joe whimpered. "I'm scared…"

Laura's eyes glistened with tears as she shifted her son's head into her lap. "Just keep breathing baby. That's it. Slowly. It's going to be all right, honey. Hospitals know what to do for heart attacks. And we'll be with you, okay? Everything's going to be all right, Joe."

Frank got to his feet and went to open the back door, listening for the sound of the ambulance siren, feeling dizzy.

_Now is not the time to panic_, he scolded himself, but dread was filling his chest just as pain filled his brother's. _Not now, please, not after all this, not now…_

_ Please, God. _

_Don't take my brother. _


	43. All Nighter

"He's stable," the Emergency Room doctor announced to the three very pale Hardys. "The attack was very mild; you're fortunate you caught it in time. I'd like to keep him overnight, for observation purposes, but I can release first thing tomorrow."

Laura leaned her head on her hand and sighed heavily; Frank thought he saw a tear on her face, but she had seemed remarkably calm throughout the past few hours, so he wasn't sure.

"Thank you," Fenton said, "can we see him?"

"One at a time. It's important to keep him calm, and to set up several follow-up appointments with a cardiologist. You can do that upstairs if you'd like."

Frank saw an opportunity. "Look, Mom, Dad, why don't you go set up the appointments and go home, get some rest, and I'll spend the night here."

The Hardy parents looked to their son.

"No," Fenton said slowly, "Frank, I think one of us should be here. In case they need something else."

"Like what? You've already filled out the insurance forms, and they said they'd release him first thing. C'mon, the two of you look like—" his mother gave him a look, "…you need sleep?"

Laura smiled. Weak, wobbly, but a smile nonetheless. "Nice save."

Fenton shook his head. "You could use some yourself, son."

"I won't be able to, Dad, you know that."

Laura and Fenton exchanged a glance. Fenton frowned; Laura shrugged.

"We're going to see him first," she finally said. "And if _anything _happens, good or bad, you _call _understand?"

Frank smiled. As close as both boys were to their father, their mother was ever their ally; unlike Fenton, she seemed to truly understand her sons' bond. More than understand; she encouraged it.

So Frank paced the waiting room and checked his watched obsessively as his parents took turns going in to see the younger Hardy, then promised Laura again that he'd call if there was _any change_—"Including a good one Franklin Hardy!"—before entering his brother's well-lit but plain looking room and opting to stand instead of rest in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Joe was lying on his back, eyes on the heart monitor showing the steady line of a healthy beat.

"How you doing?" Frank asked softly when Joe didn't look at him. "Trying to sleep?"

Joe shook his head. "No. Not tonight."

"Why not?"

The younger Hardy shrugged, but Frank saw the look on his face, saw the residue of tears on his cheeks.

_He's terrified. He's afraid he'll shut his eyes and have a heart attack in his sleep. Oh God, when will this end? He doesn't deserve it. Please, I'll do anything if you just let him get back to normal. No more fear. No more of this sadness. Please._

_ Please._

"Want me to sit with you?"

Joe just nodded. Frank perched on the edge of the bed, taking in the dark circles under his brother's eyes, the look of absolute exhaustion and utter defeat.

He's got to be worse than I am right now, and I'm ready to drop.

_Please…_

Frank moved a stray strand of hair off his brother's forehead, feeling how fragile he was, how ready to break.

_Be strong. Fight for me._

"It's all right Joe. You can cry if you need to."

Joe shook his head, but Frank saw the tears sparkle his eyes anyway.

_Please, God, I'm so tired of crying, so tired of seeing him cry. Please no more of this. We can't take anymore of this…_

"You remember in the hospital? When you held me that night?"

Frank nodded.

"Do you think you could do that again?"

Frank nodded again, moving carefully onto the bed and sliding his arms around his brother's frame, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt Joe's bones not quite as sharp as they'd been in the hospital.

_Joe's gained weight. He's eating, and he's not throwing up. He's trying to get better. We are going to get through this. Just think Hardy—this time next year it'll be a memory. All of this will be a terrible, terrible memory. But Joe will be stronger because of it._

Frank glanced down at his brother, the cheekbones not quite as tight, his skin not quite as yellow. Joe's eyes were shut tight, and Frank could feel him trembling, trying to hold in his tears, hold in the fear.

_Please give me strength. Don't let this claim him. Give me the right words. Tell me how I can help him._

_Well_, Frank sighed, what _would I want if I was him? That's easy: a distraction. Joe and I could both use one, could both use a little laughter. I don't even remember the last time we laughed._

"Hey Joe," he murmured, "what was the name of that creepy clown doll you had as a kid?"

Joe opened his eyes, startled, then frowned in thought.

"Charlie? No…chuckie…chingles…Chingle Checkers!"

"That's right. I hated that thing."

"Hey, I forgot about him! And your fear of clowns. You remember when you had those clown dreams? You came into my room for weeks, mumbling about how they were coming through your bedroom window."

"It was your fault. You left that creepy thing in my room one night, and I woke up and turned over and there it was. I've never screamed so much in my life."

Joe chuckled; Frank could barely believe it, but it was there. Not loud, not strong; but there.

_We're going to get through this_, he thought, drawing Joe closer and going on.

"It's morning," Joe said, surprised as birds began chirping outside his window. "Damn, we stayed up all night!"

"Thought you didn't want to sleep."

"_I_ didn't, but _you_ might have."

"Nah. I'd rather talk to you."

"Well, you did do that."

Joe shut his eyes and sighed.

"I really appreciate this, Frank," he murmured.

"I know. But hey, you'd do the same thing for me."

Joe drew a shaky breath. "I'll pay you back, someday. I will, I promise."

"Don't be ridiculous. You've already paid me back. You're getting well. That's all I want."

Joe rested his head against his elder brother's chest and closed his eyes, then murmured, "You're the best brother anyone could have."

Frank smiled down at his brother's slightly reddening face, then closed his own eyes.

"You too, kiddo," he said gently, "you'll know that one day."

Joe didn't answer. He was asleep.


	44. Rage

One thing Joe began to feel that surprised him: anger.

First, there was frustration over the rapid growth of his body. Every bit of food he ate was jealously guarded by his system, and he watched his bones quickly vanish beneath flesh once more. Felt clothes that once hung loosely away from his frighten tighten again. Fought urge after urge to run to the bathroom and jam his fingers to the back of his throat, watch the hated meals fall into the toilet water and flush them away, instead of discovering them in his legs, on his chest, in his stomach, over his ribcage. Sometimes he'd tear off his shirt if it felt too tight, hurl his jeans across the room, sit on the bed in his boxers shivering and grasping at the foreign padding of his flesh.

Second, there was Gertrude. She was always there in the background lecturing, pointing to unfinished portions, harping on the size of his arms and legs, criticizing therapy and the price of the antidepressants the hospital had given him. And, try as he may, he had not forgiven her for her early comments, for planting the idea that he was nothing beyond a body.

Third was Frank. As often as he insisted his brother go away to school, he felt a growing resentment that the elder Hardy had forced him into recovery only to leave him behind. Here Joe was, in a body he despised, in flesh that felt unfamiliar, while Frank went about sending out applications and writing essays to schools no closer than an hour and a half away. Try as he may, he couldn't push aside the feelings of abandonment.

He erupted at Gertrude first.

They were in the kitchen one Sunday. Joe was trying to set up a balanced lunch the way they'd taught him in the hospital—using the exchange system—but found it increasingly difficult with his Aunt hovering over his shoulder, critiquing his every choice.

"Joseph, that's not nearly enough. Do you want to wind up back in the hospital? Do you know how stressful this is on all of us? Do you know how—"

Joe slammed the knife he'd been holding down onto the counter, sending it bouncing off the tile to the floor.

"You gonna come to family therapy and tell them how you put me there Auntie?"

Gertrude went bright red. "You're putting your insanity back on _me_?"

"What did you tell me? That I was nothing more than brawn. No brain, nothing but a body. And what did I do with that? I tried to see what would happen if the body went away. And you know what? People didn't care! Frank didn't care! You think you know so much? What have you done? What was your theory, that they force feed me? And it didn't work, did it? Nothing you've said has worked. You're an ignorant old bitch, you know that! You may as well have put me there yourself and now you're making everything all that much harder!"

Joe wasn't sure when he had started yelling, only that he became aware of his parents in the doorway and Frank coming in the back door, all of them silent, all of them wide-eyed.

"Don't you dare put blame on me, Joseph! You're the one who felt the need to draw attention to yourself through starvation, as if your family doesn't do enough for you—"

"Draw attention to myself? Why the hell would I want to do that if I hated myself? Huh? Why would I want people to look at my body? I didn't want attention, I wanted the opposite! I wanted to disappear! I wanted to _die_, do you get that? Do you even care?"

"Joe," Fenton said slowly, stepping up beside his younger son, "calm down…"

"Calm _down_! Don't you even _start_! You let me be sick, you and Mom both! You never checked if I was keeping my meals down and you didn't make me go to therapy, you just threw me on a psyche ward and walked away. You let me come home and keep going, without even bothering to ask me why I was doing this to myself! Like you didn't even care!"

"Joe…" Frank tried, seeing his parents pale and his mother put a hand over her mouth. "Please…"

But Joe turned on him. "And _you_," he snapped, "you were worst of all. Going behind my back to the coach, not bothering to fight to get me out of treatment. You made me recover so you could leave me, that's it! You pretend you cared so you wouldn't have my death on your conscious, and now you're to abandon me to my own! And will you blame me if I relapse? Will you even bother to visit?"

"I said I'd stay," Frank pleaded, "but that's beside the point. You're not thinking clearly, Joe. You're saying things you'll regret…"

"I hate you!" Joe shouted, shoving Frank backwards into the door. "You made me fat! It's all your fault and I hate you for it! You want me to be second to you, to be this fat miserable thing for the rest of my life and I hate you, I _hate_ you_, I_ _hate_ _you_! Every Goddamned one of you!"

He turned and slammed his way up the stairs, smacking his fist into the wall, deliberately hitting each step with force. Laura was crying softly. Gertrude was pale; Fenton, stunned.

And Frank just stood there, holding the mail he'd been outside collecting: the mail that included his first acceptance.


	45. The Return of Confidence

"Frank?"

Frank rolled over, startled; he hadn't heard the door to the bathroom open. Joe was hovering nervously in the doorway. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. I couldn't sleep. What's wrong?"

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

Joe hesitantly stepped over the threshold, shutting the door behind him. Frank scooted over to make a spot for his brother to sit.

"What's wrong?" he asked as Joe lowered himself to the mattress.

"I couldn't sleep either. I feel terrible."

"What? Physically? Is it your chest? Your stomach? Your throat? Does your abdomen hurt at all…"

"Frank! Not physically. Emotionally. I mean…I feel awful about what I said earlier."

"Oh."

"I'm not even going to ask you to forgive me. What I said was awful. You've been unbelievable through all of this, and all I end up doing is being more and more of an asshole."

Joe's voice cracked, and Frank saw him clench his hands trembling hands into fists.

"All I can say is I'm sorry, which I am. God, Frank, I'm so sorry. You don't have to forgive me. I'd understand if you didn't. But…"

"Joe," he said softly, touching his brother's arm. "Look at me."

Joe did.

"I said I'd always be there for you, right? Well, that includes when this thing gets the better of you and you lose it a little. Trust me, bro, I am never going to take you for granted again after this thing. Promise. All right?"

The younger Hardy's eyes filled.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"Hey, don't go back there. We've been through that. Just reverse the situation. If this thing had gotten me you would have fought like a madman through all of it. And you'd forgive me. Right?"

Joe nodded.

"Then no more of this deserving crap. You promised. Remember?"

Joe shut his eyes. Frank felt him shake.

"Shhh, it's okay. You want to sleep with me?"

Joe nodded again and lay down beside his brother. Frank put an arm around him, shushing him again.

"Frank?"

"Yeah?"

An awkward pause. Then:

"I love you. You said it all the time, but I never did. I just…wanted you to know that."

"I do," Frank murmured, ruffling Joe's hair. "Get some sleep, buddy."

Joe was quiet for a moment, then turned to watch his brother in the dark. "Did you decide about school yet?"

The elder Hardy took a deep breath. "I'm going to go to Penn. If I get in."

Joe nodded. "We have to separate."

"But there are conditions."

"Oh?"

"I'm going to call you every night, and you're going to tell me what you ate for all three meals and a snack."

"All right."

"And you have to visit me. Often."

"Gotcha."

"No mysteries without me either. And you have to do whatever the doctors tell you."

"Promise."

Frank smiled. "I'll miss you too, you know."

Joe smiled back. "I know," he answered, for the first time in months, confidence behind his words.


	46. Epilogue

"Breakfast: cereal, fruit, juice. Lunch: sandwich, veggies, apple, _non-diet _soda. Snack: peanutbutter sandwich and milk. Dinner: chicken, salad with dressing, greenbeans, watermelon. Now: drinking another _non-diet _soda. How's your day been, bro?"

Frank laughed into the receiver. "One day it's not going to be me, you know."

"I _always _know when it's you. I've got Frank ESP."

"Really now? What am I thinking?"

"You're thinking about how much you miss pestering Joe on a minute to minute basis. Hence the phone call."

"You've got me all figured, huh?"

"Looks like it."

Frank looked out the window of his dorm room, where he'd moved in just two weeks earlier. He'd finally decided on Columbia, in New York City, after several acceptances and much encouraging from Joe. He was still in the same state, still only an hour or so away from home, in case an emergency arose and the younger Hardy needed him.

But for all the worrying Frank still did over his younger brother's health, Joe had remained remarkably on course. That wasn't to say he didn't struggle, or that there weren't days were Frank saw the desire to lie in his younger brother's face, but the therapy seemed to be working. Joe was far more open with his family, especially his brother, about his feelings of inadequacy and depression, and often, after having talked through whatever he was feeling, eating was a bit easier. Not simple, not without struggle, but Joe confessed that, months after his admittance, that there were meals when he felt almost normal again. He was still much more slender than before, and was under strict restrictions as to what physical activities he could participate in—no more sports, that was for sure—but the brothers had begun taking walks during the summer in the evenings, more often than not talking about friends and family and joking as they had before the illness had started.

And here Joe was, months later and one summer down, making the return to school the week after his brother completed orientation.

"How're your classes?" the elder Hardy asked, leaning back in his desk chair.

"Boring. How's your roommate?"

"Nice. He talks in his sleep though. And laughs. It's the weirdest thing."

"Does he know what a neat freak you are?"

"He doesn't care," Frank looked to the growing pile of dirty laundry in the corner of his roommate's side and rolled his eyes. "Trust me."

"I like him already."

"You would. You going to come visit?"

Joe sighed. "Yeah, but not for awhile. I have to do the separation thing without losing weight."

Frank nodded, although Joe couldn't see him. "You're eating?"

"Didn't I tell you I was?"

"Just making sure."

"Vanessa and I are going out this Friday. Probably just to Mr. Pizza, but it's still going to be nerve racking."

Frank felt a stab of sympathy, briefly wished he was home so he could take the next step with his brother. As much as everyone had lectured Joe on his separation issues, Frank realized that he had more than a few himself. Joe had been his closest friend since infancy, and his sudden absence made the elder Hardy feel surprisingly lonely.

"I'm sorry I'm not there."

"Aw, Frank, don't start that. You're kicking ass, right?"

Frank laughed. "I think chem is going to kick mine right onto academic probation."

"So you'll get an A minus. Freud says those who attach their self worth to a grade should seek serious psychiatric counseling."

"When have you read Freud?"

"I didn't. I just don't think I should be the only one in therapy."

"Pack off Aunt Gertrude, some poor doctor could make a fortune."

Joe's turn to laugh. "Any mysteries up there?"

Mysteries. Frank had almost forgotten them in the confusion of the past few months. Before that he couldn't have envisioned his life without them; now, he realized that it wasn't so much the mysteries that were so essential, but that his brother was beside them throughout.

"No. Any in Bayport? Not that you'd be getting into them without me—"

"There's about six a day now that my day planner's gone missing. Like, what class do I have next? What time was I supposed to meet Vanessa? Who the hell packed sardines in my lunch? Why do none of my socks match and who keeps borrowing my CDs when you're not here?"

"When have you ever kept a day planner?"

"I didn't. You always knew my schedule."

"Ah." Frank smiled, then suddenly felt his eyes stinging lightly. Joe sounded…like _Joe_. "You sound really good kiddo."

"I had a good day," Joe agreed. "It's been awhile since I felt I could say that, but I really did." A beat. "Miss you though."

"I miss you too. It's weird waking up and knowing you're not next door."

"Well, two weeks down. You'll be home for Thanksgiving before you know it. And there's parents weekend."

"You're not a parent."

"But I'm still coming."

Frank wiped at his eyes, continuing to smile. "You keep going, hear?"

"Yeah," Joe's voice softened, "Frank? Are you crying?"

"A little."

"How come?"

"You sound so…_good_. You have a personality again. For awhile…it seemed like you were a list of symptoms. And that was scarier than anything else." He paused, took a deep breath. "I've missed you, brother."

"Yeah," Joe murmured, his own voice slightly strained, "I don't want to be that way anymore. I might as well have introduced myself as depressed and anorexic. Now…I'm Joe, and I have depression."

Frank smiled. The description was perfect.


End file.
